


A World With You

by Johaerys



Series: More Than Might Be Wise: Dorian & Tristan Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angsty fluff? Is that a thing? Because if it is, Battle Couple, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Poetry, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, it's here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2020-07-05 21:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 182,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys
Summary: Tristan Trevelyan is sullen and grim, a frown almost permanent on his face. Years of running from the bounty hunters his family sent after him can do that to a man. When a certain mage from Tevinter joins the Inquisition, Tristan finds the one person that seems able to crack his somber facade.But hoping for anything more at times like these is nothing but a mad fancy. Just the title of Inquisitor is enough to drive anyone away, and perhaps it's better that way. Things don't usually go very well for those who find themselves close to him.





	1. Haven

Tristan always hated the cold.

The snow, the howling wind, the biting chill that made his toes freeze as soon as he stepped out of bed in the morning – he liked none of that. Socks were the one thing he could never make himself wear to sleep, so he paid for it in numb and tingling extremities ever since his rotten luck had tossed him in Haven.

That morning was like any other – he had been dreaming of a heatwave when he was rudely awakened by a servant banging on the door of his hut.

“Herald!” the eager voice called from outside. “Herald!”

“Come in,” Tristan replied groggily. He tossed the covers aside and stood up, shivering.

The servant walked in, bending in a deep bow as soon as he'd crossed the threshold. “Oh!” he gasped, when he saw Tristan putting on his woollen robe. “Forgive me, my lord, I did not know you were sleeping, I shouldn't be disturbing you-”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Tristan said, making a soothing gesture. “Come inside. And for Andraste's sake, man, close the door,” he groaned, and pulled his robe tighter around him.

The servant jumped as if slapped. He stood before him stiffly after securing the door on its latch, clasping his hands behind his back.

Tristan sat on the only chair in the room; a small and dingy one he had dragged in front of the fireplace for want of better accommodations. The fire had long died out, which only made the cold and damp even worse. He crossed his legs in an effort to appear comfortable and glanced at the servant. The man returned his gaze with an awkward blink.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

The man jumped again. “Ah! Yes, of course,” he said, his eyes darting from the ground to Tristan’s face and back. “Sister Leliana has called a council meeting. You have been asked to be there at 10 o’clock, sharp.”

“’Sharp’,” Tristan echoed, amusement creeping in to his voice. If anything, the woman was punctual. Unlike him. “Is that all?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Fine, thank you,” he sighed in relief, waving the servant away. The man made another deep bow and started to leave, but froze in his tracks when Tristan spoke again. “Oh, and I’d like to have my breakfast here, if that’s alright.”

“Of course, my lord,” the servant said, his dark brown hair falling before his face as he bowed -for the third time, was it?- and hastily left the hut. Tristan almost called him back to ask him to light the fire in the hearth, but he bit his lip down hard. He couldn’t help but recognise certain habits of old, slithering their way in. Having servants. Giving orders. People bowing and scraping before him, tending to his every need, bringing him his breakfast, lighting his fire, “yes, milord”, “no, milord”. It stung a little to realise how quickly he had become accustomed to that sort of life again. Was he really just another spoiled noble heir, who couldn’t wait to have someone to bark commands at? Had the last few years of his life taught him nothing at all?

It had almost been two winters since he'd abandoned his family home, and with it any dreams of riches, power, recognition. Before he'd suddenly been bestowed with a strange mark on his hand that could rip apart the fabric of the world itself, he could have sworn that the part of him that had been raised in nobility had been erased from existence. For years, he'd done his absolute best to be no one at all, somebody that nobody would think to look at twice, hiding himself in plain sight. Yet there he was, being a somebody once again, acting the lord again, jumping in to fill the shoes of someone powerful and high and mighty; the Herald, and that of Andraste, no less. What a farce.

Gingerly, with the tips of his fingers, he lifted some logs from the basket next to the fireplace and placed them carefully in the hearth. That was the easy part. Lighting fires was never his strong suit, especially in this frigid dump, where every piece of wood was frozen and kindling was where young flames went to die. After several attempts with his flint and dagger, a shy fire started going. He blew on it gently, holding his hands in front of its faint warmth, feeling quite proud of himself. He wouldn't have it said that the Herald of Andraste couldn't light a damned fire by himself.

After he'd had his humble breakfast of porridge, cheese and some lovely mulled wine, doubtlessly chosen by Ambassador Josephine, he dressed himself hastily. His everite ring was on his bedside table, next to his daggers. The inscription, even though faded with time and wear, was still clearly legible. He lovingly thumbed the carved letters on its smooth surface before slipping it on his finger, and, with a sigh, braced himself to venture out in the bitter cold. Fluffy snowflakes were falling lazily, swirling with the wind, landing on his eyelashes and melting on his skin. He nodded absently at the greetings and bows of the people around him as he passed, trying his best to ignore their whispers as soon as they thought he was out of earshot. He hurried past them, making his way to the tavern for another warm drink before heading to yet another dreaded council meeting.

The thick warmth emanating from the brazier enveloped him as soon as he pushed the door of the tavern open, and the scent of ale and spices tingled his nostrils. A quick glance around the room made it clear that he wasn’t the only one seeking warmth that icy morning.

“Ah! My favourite Herald,” a merry voice called from a table to his right. He turned to find its source, and was greeted by a handsome, smiling face. “Do join me. There’s plenty of room for another poor, freezing soul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	2. Casual Acquaintances

The Singing Maiden was a modest establishment. No; it was more than modest. Tristan wouldn’t exactly call it a hovel, but it was dangerously close. It was certainly much, much humbler than even the most run-down pubs in Ostwick, those by the docks that were occupied almost exclusively by dock workers, sailors and underground fighters. Tristan had spent most of his younger years playing Wicked Grace at their greasy tables, and drunkenly singing sea shanties with weather beaten sailors lacking most of their teeth.

Another lifetime, it seemed. A small wave of nostalgia rushed through him, but he brushed it away hastily. These memories might as well have belonged to a different person. Besides, the ale at the Singing Maiden wasn’t half bad.

He nodded a greeting at Flissa, the barkeep, who was wiping a mug with a cloth that had seen better days. She flashed him a cheerful grin, one that made her round and rosy face look even wider. She wasn’t the only one that had noticed his arrival. As soon as he stepped in and closed the door, the hazy murmurs from the occupied tables came to an abrupt stop. Several pairs of eyes turned towards him. Some of them he recognised; two mages and four apprentices that he had met at the Gull and Lantern at Redcliffe Village. He could not quite remember their names- he was never any good with names- but their faces, he couldn’t forget.

They had seemed so anxious and forlorn back then, staying in a crowded inn under Fiona’s command, with Alexius and the Venatori breathing down their necks. Now, they smiled and greeted him quite formally, bowing their heads and calling him by his title, and something akin to awe and respect flashed in their eyes. He returned their greeting with one of his customary sharp nods. Tristan didn’t think he would ever get comfortable with people looking at him that way; as far as he was concerned, he had done nothing more than what needed to be done; end the war and give the mages the freedom they deserved. Not everyone agreed with that, of course, but at least the mages that were now peering at him so fondly seemed to think he had done quite well.

The three Templars sitting just across from them were much more reserved. They didn’t make a show of bowing and greeting him, like the mages had. They simply murmured a sullen “Herald” and returned to their hushed conversation. Tristan barely acknowledged their greeting as he walked to an empty seat. If anything, they had made it quite clear what they thought of him and his decisions.

Dorian was sitting by a small table next to the small, foggy window. The view from it was nothing to write home about, but it provided sufficient light. Tristan dragged a chair back, its legs scraping the old, dusty floorboard, and sat across from him.

“You look positively dreary.”

Despite the heat in the room, Dorian was tightly wrapped in his thick, woollen cloak. He held his cup close under his nose, inhaling the steam rising from it. The rings on his long fingers shone as he moved.

Tristan frowned slightly. “Good morning to you, too.” His tone was flat and curt, a jarring juxtaposition to Dorian’s cheerfulness.

“And in a dreary mood as well, it seems.” A half smile curled his lips, as if his jab was carefully chosen to have the effect it had just had on Tristan. “Care for a cup of mulled wine? It will lift your spirits, I assure you.”

“Isn’t it a bit early for wine?” Tristan replied. He wasn't about to admit that this was exactly why he had stepped in the tavern in the first place.

Dorian’s laughter rung clear across the room. “My dear Herald, it’s never too early for wine. Especially in this frozen wasteland of a place,” he said, wrinkling his aquiline nose. “Come, have a drink with me. The Antivan Red is particularly good. My treat.” Without waiting for an answer, he lifted his hand. In a moment, Flissa was by their table, her cheeks flushed from the heat and her keen eyes glinting as she awaited their order.

“Bring the Herald a cup of Antivan Red, spiced and warmed. And do go easy on the honey,” Dorian told her. “The wine is already quite sweet. It doesn’t need it,” he explained to Tristan, after Flissa had disappeared behind the counter.

Despite his frown only half a breath earlier, Tristan couldn’t help a slow, reserved smirk. Even half-way across the world, the man still behaved as if he owned the place. Suspicious glances and insults whispered behind tight lips seemed not to bother him at all. On several occasions Tristan had even heard him jest about the irony of his situation; a mage from Tevinter, aiding a southern upstart organisation with religious undertones defeat the Venatori and that Elder One, who were, in fact, from Tevinter.

Everyone, including his advisors and other members of Tristan’s inner circle had initially seen him as a threat. Tristan had to practically argue with Cassandra to stop her from sending him away, and she still wore a distrustful frown whenever he was in her vicinity. The rest were more subtle in their reactions, but their reservations were plain to see.

Yet Tristan couldn’t help but trust him. Even though he teased him at every opportunity and there seemed to be no end to his witticisms, Tristan rather enjoyed his company, actually. He told himself that it was because Dorian had risked his life at Redcliffe Castle to help them against Alexius and the Venatori. Yes, that was certainly it. It definitely had nothing to do with the golden hue of his skin, which was contrasting the dark red of his cloak quite beautifully that morning. Or his warm and heady cologne, mixed with the scent of mulled wine. Or his grey eyes, with the tiny golden flecks that glinted in the morning sun, or…

Tristan flinched inwardly at the unbidden thoughts. He could feel the crease between his brows deepening as he sipped on his wine. What a brilliant start to his morning, with his mind going to all the places it shouldn’t.

“My, my. The mighty Herald, sighing as if he were lovestruck. Who’s the lucky girl?”

Dorian was eyeing him carefully behind his cup. Tristan blinked in astonishment. Had he really been sighing? After a moment of confusion, he scoffed and assumed his most unbothered expression as he looked out the window. Or at least, he hoped he appeared unbothered. He rummaged his brain for an appropriate answer, but could find none.

He always thought himself quite eloquent, yet more often than not he found himself tongue tied when he was with the dark-haired Tevinter. He wished Flissa a thousand silent blessings when she showed up with his drink on her tray, giving him a way out of Dorian’s dizzying stare.

“Thank you,” he muttered, taking the warm cup in his hands. He wrapped his fingers around it tightly, basking in its warmth. He dared a quick glance at Dorian, who was swirling the wine in his own cup.

“So,” the man said decisively, “how _is_ everything? Freeing mages and appeasing angry Templars and Chancellors must be exhilarating, to say the least.” The tips of his moustache were carefully curled upwards, and Tristan was sure the pomade he used was scented, as it released a faint, pleasant aroma every time he spoke. “I did notice a bit of a… commotion yesterday.”

Ah, yes. The incident between some mages and Templars the previous day. Tristan had known that expecting people not to talk was hoping too much. The stream of refugees from all over Ferelden was incessant. Word had spread around Thedas that there was finally a safe place where no one was persecuted for lighting a fire with a spell, or getting caught in the midst of a bloody battle between rogue Templars and apostate mages with nowhere to run. There was hardly enough space for everyone – the humble accommodations in Haven were already greatly overburdened as it was– but Tristan had vowed to not send anyone away that needed refuge. Naturally, tension between the Templars and Chantrics and the mages was at its zenith, and a simple disagreement over lodging had quickly escalated in a flash of spirit magic and a few drawn swords.

Tristan had run to the middle of the disturbance with Commander Cullen. A few sharp words later everyone had returned to their posts, danger averted, but he could not quell the nagging feeling that the worst was yet to come. A rebellion within his own ranks was the last thing he needed.

“Things around here are becoming … very fragile,” he told Dorian earnestly. Weariness crept in to his voice, but he tried to keep it at bay. He glanced at the everite ring on his finger that glistened in the dull grey sun. He twisted it absently, so that the faded inscription was sitting on the underside of his finger, before he continued. “Many were not happy with my decision to ally with the mages. Mages are still viewed as a threat, even by themselves at times. A quick conversation with Madame de Fer and you’ll soon find out all the reasons why a mage should always stay in the Circle, like a strange, wild animal in a cage. But things cannot possibly continue as they were. Conscripting the mages would just bring the Circles back, and that would practically be as good as restoring Chantry rule. That’s just not going to happen. Not while I have any say in it.”

He uttered the last few words without really thinking about it. Ever since he had found out he could actually play a role in forging the mages’ future, these were thoughts and internal arguments that had milled about in his head, but were never spoken out loud. He would grudgingly repeat that to himself through tightened jaws every time someone would bring up what a terrible decision he had made, or how dangerous the mages were, or how quickly everything would fall apart again, but he had never actually _said_ them to anyone. Realising what he had done, he pinched his lips tightly and quickly brought his cup to his mouth. He took a long draught, hoping he had not said too much.

But Dorian stayed silent. He was studying him thoughtfully, his long finger drawing circles around the edges of his cup.

It was impossible to know what Dorian was thinking. The silence stretched between them, so that Tristan became aware of a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. Making a bad impression on the one person that actually went to the trouble of asking him how he was was more than he could bear at that moment. At the risk of sounding petulant, Tristan cleared his throat, keeping his gaze firmly outside the foggy windows. “You must think me a fanatic.”

“A fanatic?” Dorian echoed. “On the contrary. If anything, I find you quite fascinating.”

Tristan let out a short huff. He glanced at Dorian, expecting to see the now familiar teasing smile and the mocking glint in his eyes. But the mage was simply watching him, as serious as Tristan had ever seen him.

“Fascinating? You must be the only one thinking that. Judging from the people around here, I thought most were after my hide.”

“And what a dashing hide. It would be such a pity to see it hanging over Therinfall Redoubt, or some other equally dreadful establishment. Especially before seeing everything it can accomplish. I have no doubt that the world will be a very different place after you’re done with it.”

For a moment, Tristan simply gaped at him. It had been a long while, too long perhaps, since anyone had paid him a compliment of any kind. It sounded odd, and jarring, as if it were addressed to someone else.

He shook his head, brushing it away as a joke. It must have been. “You jest. I should have known better than to listen to the ‘charming, yet ultimately wicked magister’.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed, and his silvery laugh bubbled from his slightly parted lips. “Charming _and_ wicked? Is that what your advisors say about me? I plead guilty on both accounts. Jokes aside, though, you must be able to see the absurdity of it all. The Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste himself supporting free mages? What’s next? Elves running Halamshiral? Dogs ordering men to fetch? Colour me intrigued.”

His smile had not quite faded as Dorian downed the last of his wine, eyes fixed on Tristan’s. He set his cup down and rearranged his cloak about his shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and brush the stench of ale and pork stew off my cloak. One must look and smell their ravishing best when alphabetizing potions and elixirs.”

“Not a fan of our good, old tavern, I take it?” The clear derision in Dorian’s tone brought an instinctive grin to Tristan’s face. Finally, a person after his own heart. He wondered what else they might have in common.

“Ha! A ‘fan’, he says. The audacity.” His chair dragged along the creaking floor as he stood. “So long, Herald,” he said over his shoulder, his cloak twirling behind him as he walked towards the door.

Tristan sat silent for a moment, staring at the empty space where Dorian had sat. His wine had turned cold, and the spices didn’t taste quite as warming as before. His features returned to their usual placidity, and he set his cup down. Absently, he realised that he never got the chance to ask Dorian how he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [ JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! :)


	3. Keeping Face

Another cup of mulled wine later, Tristan left the thick warmth of the tavern and hurried towards the Chantry building. He noticed a slight stagger in his step and, for once, was thankful for the cold wind in his face.

It was probably not the best idea to show up before his advisors somewhat inebriated, but there was no other way he could bear these dreadfully long and tedious meetings. He pushed the heavy oaken doors of the building open, and was met with the bowing heads of Chantry sisters and the mumbled greetings of visiting dignitaries. For a long moment, he considered turning back on his heel and fleeing back to the cosy tavern, but he steeled himself to walk down the long corridor. His stomach was churning slightly. He blamed the wine.

Leliana, Josephine, Cullen and Cassandra were talking in hushed whispers when he walked in the council room. They all turned to look at him, faint disapproval on their faces.

“You are late,” Leliana said curtly.

“Apologies, Sister. It was a busy morning. You’d be surprised how many people have been vying for my attentions lately.”

“Is that _wine_ I smell?” Cassandra said, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

Tristan shot the Seeker his most icy glare. “I don’t see what that has to do with the meeting.”

Cassandra bristled at his curt tone, but went on with her attack regardless. “What manner of drunkard reeks of wine when it’s not even noon yet?”

“Why does it matter if I have a drink or two? I’m here, am I not? Besides,” Tristan said flatly, “you could use a cup of mulled wine yourself, Seeker. You seem a bit on edge.”

Cullen’s eyes hopped from Cassandra’s horror-stricken face to Tristan’s and back. Tristan could never tell what the Commander was thinking behind that serious face, but, damn him, it was an attractive one. Golden curls combed neatly back, honey brown eyes peering from underneath slightly furrowed brows, sharp cheekbones and a chiselled jawline covered in blond stubble. He stood almost a head over everyone in the room, arms folded over his broad chest as he observed Cassandra’s outrage silently. He was so handsome, Tristan occasionally forgot that he used to be a Templar.

The Commander cleared his throat, and Cassandra turned to look at him, lips pursed. “I’m afraid there isn’t enough time to discuss the Herald’s drinking habits, Seeker. I have to oversee the training of the new recruits and several armoury reports to finish, and we’re already running behind. Shall we begin?” he said, and bent his head over the war table again.

“Yes, let’s,” Josephine chimed in, not even noticing Cassandra’s scowl. “First on the agenda, Marquis DuRellion has extended his hospitality to the Inquisition by allowing us to occupy Haven until further notice.”

“Has he, truly?” Tristan said incredulously. About a month back, the noble had visited Lady Josephine’s office in a fury, intending to throw them all out of Haven on accounts of them supposedly having acted against the Chantry’s and Divine Justinia’s orders when the Inquisition was founded. He had left shooting them all murderous glances from his fancy carriage, after Tristan had threatened to use said carriage as a target for his throwing knife practice. “It seems he took my warning seriously.”

“Not quite, Herald,” Josephine replied, her polite smile fading for only a moment. “After your… intervention, I investigated the wrights of ownership of Haven. It seems the Marquis’s claim on the land is not as strong as he thought. I sent a letter to Empress Celene’s associates, and they confirmed that the Marquis would not be able to order our eviction without the Empress’s agreement. The Marquis followed up shortly after with his own response, allowing us to stay. He would hardly want to lose face after the Empress herself was involved.”

“Well done, Josie,” Leliana said, with that smile she reserved only for her friend.

“Yes, that’s marvelous,” Cassandra broke in impatiently. “Now for the more pressing matters.” She turned around to face Tristan. “The mages are out of control.”

Tristan resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he returned her glare. “Is there a particular reason why you’re looking at me when you say that?”

“Because this is _your_ doing,” Cassandra said, wagging her finger at him for emphasis. “You were the one who offered the mages a full alliance. Now they’re all here, and we do not have the means to contain them. We cannot have them fighting with the Templars, like they were doing yesterday.”

“You cannot blame me for this. There was a decision to be made and I made it. Besides, I would hardly call yesterday's event fighting. It was just a row. Cullen and I took care of it.”

“You are naïve if you think it was just a row. This was only the beginning. Soon, they’ll be fighting amongst themselves.”

Tristan opened his mouth to interject, but Leliana interrupted him. “I have to agree with Cassandra. Discontent among our ranks is growing. The Templars and the Chantry are not happy that the Inquisition chose to side with the mages. The mages, on the other hand, have largely been divided between those who want Independence and those who still support the Circles. It won’t be long until we have more unrest.”

“If the Templars and the Chantry are not happy, then they might as well leave,” Tristan spat with more distaste than he had intended. He took a short breath, trying to school the vehemence out of his voice. “Why do we need them anyway? We have enough power now to close the Breach. As for the mages, I believe it’s rather clear what the Inquisition supports. Those Circle ‘enthusiasts’ you’re talking about will have to come around to the idea eventually.”

“The Templars are needed here,” Cullen replied matter-of-factly. “There needs to be someone able to face abominations should they occur. We are in short supply as it is. I suggest we start training more of our soldiers as Templars. It’s the least we can do to maintain some semblance of order.”

Tristan stared at the Commander as if he had punched him in the gut. “Train more Templars? That would be like restoring the Circles! After all we’ve done to set mages free, we’re going to place them under Templar watch once again?”

“It may not be an ideal solution, but it might help restore the public’s trust in the Inquisition,” Josephine said. “Many were sceptical about our allegiance with the mages, and a few nobles have expressed their concerns outright. People trust Templars. Having more of them around could not hurt.”

Tristan could not believe his ears. He twisted the ring on his finger, struggling to keep his composure. After everything that had happened, after risking his life and the Inquisition’s reputation to give the mages a chance to finally be free of Chantry and Templars, one word from these people before him and it would be like putting the shackles back on their wrists.

He could not allow this. He _would_ not allow this.

Yet, he had to be diplomatic about it. Keeping the grinding of his teeth to a bare minimum, he peered at every advisor in turn before he spoke. “Bringing more Templars into our ranks is not a solution. At least not a permanent one. It might solve the problem temporarily but it won’t be long until we are facing the same issues. Let’s not forget how the war between the Templars and the mages was started in the first place. There has to be a different way.”

There was a brief silence amongst the advisors, before Leliana spoke. “That is true. We have a very delicate situation on our hands. We cannot allow anyone to think that we are picking yet another side. At least for now. We have to act fast, and attract as little attention as possible. What our followers are lacking at the moment,” she glanced at Cassandra as she said this, “is a common goal. A shared vision will unite them, and divert them from any internal conflict. I suggest we advance towards the Breach as soon as possible. We should not allow any further delay.”

“I agree with Leliana,” Cassandra said. “The sooner we march the better. But the Templar discussion is not yet over. After we return from the Breach, we will need to convene again.”

“Provided I’m still alive,” Tristan added sourly. Cassandra’s lips were pressed in a tight line, but she said nothing.

Josephine paused her incessant scribbling to lift her gaze to Tristan. “Before this meeting is concluded, Herald, there is another matter I would like to discuss. It concerns your lineage.”

Tristan returned her gaze levelly, keeping his face as expressionless as he could. He knew the matter of his ancestry would come up eventually, but he had hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. “What of it, Lady Ambassador?”

“I would like to dispatch a courier asking the banns of House Trevelyan to align themselves with us. Your family’s support of the Inquisition could add great legitimacy to our cause.”

“With the Trevelyans, my presence may close more doors than it opens,” Tristan replied quickly. “My relations with my family are shaky at best. I would not dwell on it too much if I were you.”

“I…see,” Josephine said reluctantly. She prepared to note down his response, when she suddenly paused, her pen hovering over the paper. “If I may, Herald, I think you might be too quick in dismissing your family’s support of you. I have received several notes from your Lady Mother, and she-“

“You have spoken with my mother?”

Tristan was sure his heart had stopped beating momentarily. It had been close to two years since he had last seen Esme Trevelyan, since he had left the Trevelyan mansion in Ostwick, never to return. It was by sheer luck that the bloodhounds she had sent after him never managed to catch him and drag him back. He should have known she would find out about the Inquisition eventually, but the mere thought of her knowing where he was still filled him with dread. If he never saw her again, it would be too soon.

“Well, yes,” Josephine said, blinking. “If I may be frank, she seemed quite concerned. Taking into consideration that you are the sole heir of the Trevelyan family, surely she would be happy to at least discuss the possibility of-“

“I am _not_ the sole heir!”

Every eye in the room fixed itself on him. Tristan could hear his pulse beating in his throat as he returned their startled gazes. He caught himself clutching the ring on his finger, so hard his knuckles had gone white, and he hastily let his hands fall at his sides. Even if he could find the words, he would never be able to tell them that he hadn’t always been the sole heir. It would be even more difficult to explain that since becoming the Maker-damned sole heir, he would have gladly sold his soul to the highest bidder just so he could turn back time and not be.

“What I meant to say,“ he said slowly, carefully, in an attempt to smooth the tension over, “is that my being the sole heir has absolutely nothing to do with it. My mother has never wanted me anywhere near the Trevelyan fortune or name. It’s best if we just leave things as they are. Support will come eventually, Lady Josephine. Nobles are always quick to sniff out opportunities, of that I can assure you.”

He thought he saw Leliana glancing at his ring, but when he looked at her she was peering straight in his eyes. “I believe you have made your point clear, Herald.” She lowered her voice, her icy blue gaze boring deep into him. “ _Very_ clear.”

It was a relief when Josephine announced the council meeting officially over. With a curt nod he bid them all good-day and exited the stuffy room. His heart was still thumping in his chest as he walked down the long, dark corridor of the Chantry Building. That business with his mother, that was a close call. Too close perhaps. At least he had managed to evade it somewhat. For now.

He almost let out a sigh of relief, when he remembered Leliana’s eyes on his ring. Fear gripped at him with icy claws. Did she know? But how could she? Could her agents have found out about his past? Of course, they must have. Leliana’s agents could find a needle in a haystack. He silently cursed himself. How could he have been so careless, so naïve, so fucking dense-

He took a deep breath. Even if Leliana knew, there was nothing she could do. His past was a burden that only he was meant to carry.

He ran a hand through his hair, willing himself to calmness, and walked on. He still had a mountain of reports to go through after the events in Redcliffe castle and a few weapon requisitions that needed his attention, but not before another warm drink and perhaps a game of Wicked Grace with Varric at the tavern. That should set his frayed nerves straight.

“Herald, may I have a word?” he heard Cassandra’s voice behind him.

With a bit more reluctance than he wanted to let show, he turned around slowly to face her. “Yes, Seeker?” he made himself say through clenched teeth.

“Walk with me,” she said, stepping ahead of him. The woman was so used to giving orders, that she didn’t even wait to see if he would follow. He gingerly obeyed, and they were soon walking silently side by side on the faded red carpet along the narrow corridor.

Once they were safely out of earshot of the crowd gathered in the Chantry building, he stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. “Well?”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “I am not sure how to tell you this, so I am just going to say it.” She inhaled sharply and looked away. “There have been some… rumours.”

“Rumours? What rumours?”

“About…you.”

“Rumours about me? I’m intrigued.” He always took a tiny bit of pleasure hearing all the outrageous stories people said about him. Most of them were spread as anti-Inquisition propaganda by the clerics, no doubt, but were enjoyable nonetheless.

“Yes. I am afraid they involve… another person as well.”

“Oh?” This was getting better by the minute. “And who might this person be, pray tell? Last I heard, I was participating in orgies with abominations and murderous apostates. I can’t wait to hear who I’m sleeping with next.”

Cassandra sniffed her disapproval at his mocking tone. “I would advise you to take this seriously, Herald. Your reputation and that of the Inquisition is of utmost importance for our mission. That being said… There’s been talk of you spending time with… with the Tevinter.” She uttered the word as if it were an accusation in and of itself. “You know of whom I speak,” she added quickly, when he lifted an eyebrow at her inquisitively.

Tristan knew very well of whom she spoke, but decided not to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging that shared knowledge. “I am afraid you will have to be a bit more specific, Cassandra. I’ve met quite a few Tevinters lately. You know, whilst fighting a Venatori legion trying to subdue the whole world to their will, and all that. ”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and huffed. “I am talking about Dorian Pavus.”

“What of him?” It was evident Tristan was wearing her patience thin, but he just couldn’t resist pushing her a little bit more.

“I am sure you are aware of people’s conception of Tevinter mages. There are many who think that they are untrustworthy and dangerous. Having one amongst our ranks is controversial enough. But the Herald of Andraste associating with him so publicly… would be unwise.”

Tristan straightened his back so that he stood somewhat taller than the seasoned warrior, and looked at her over his nose. “I will have to remind you, Seeker, that Lord Pavus risked his life to help our cause, when he had little to gain from it. I wonder whether those ‘people’ you talk of would have done the same. We wouldn’t even be here having this conversation were it not for him. The Inquisition owes a heavy debt to Dorian, and it’s time people start acknowledging that.”

Cassandra gaped at him, eyes wide in shock. “No one is questioning the importance of Lord Pavus’s actions. But as the Herald of Andraste, you need to…”

He interrupted her with an impatient wave of his hand. “I know what my obligations are as the Herald of Andraste, Cassandra. But disregarding valued members of the Inquisition based on ridiculous prejudices just so a couple Chantry sisters can sleep safer at night is not something I am about to do.” He turned to leave, but paused to look at her over his shoulder. “I believed that partaking in gossip was beneath you. I guess I was wrong.”

He walked away, leaving Cassandra boiling in embarrassment. A small, barely perceptible smile spread on his face. He always did have a flair for the dramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! xoxo


	4. Fold

Sitting by the desk of his small hut, clutching his fine feather pen, Dorian let out an exasperated sigh. Ever since he had come to Haven, writing had become one of his least pleasurable activities. He couldn’t quite fathom how he was still cold despite being so close to the hearth _and_ wearing his stoutest cloak. His wooden fingers fumbled about with the pen, his letters on the thin vellum a forced squiggle. He brought the small piece of paper up to his eyes and squinted at it. No one would be able to read that cursed label. With a sharp huff, he crumbled it up in his fist and threw it in the fire.

He let his gaze fall past the window as he briefly contemplated the wisdom of his decision to ever descend to the south. It was very different from how he had envisioned it. Oh, it was terribly quaint, in a decrepit sort of way. He would even call it picturesque had he not been trembling like a wet mabari all the time.

But the weather and the horrid architecture was the least of his concerns. It didn’t help much that most people he met gaped at him like fish out of water and scrambled away as if he were the bearer of the blood plague. He had found out the hard way that mages, and those from Tevinter especially, were not exactly well received. Half the residents of Haven thought him something of a villain from a children’s story. As for the other half, Dorian only hoped that they weren’t bold enough to burn his hut while he slept.

That’s what the infamous southern hospitality he had heard so much about looked like. Splendid.

A knock on his door stirred him out of his grim thoughts.

“Thank the Maker,” he whispered as he placed the pen back in its holder. No more writing for him, at last. He stood up, gathering his coat tightly about his shoulders. He hadn’t even pushed the door fully open when he felt the strong, icy blast coming in from outside. The cold, he might someday get used to, as well as shovelling the snow from his door every morning, but this blasted wind? He didn’t think he would ever get used to that.

A massive, horned figure obscuring the daylight greeted him as soon as the door swung on its hinges.

“Morning,” the Qunari who called himself the Iron Bull said with a grin.

“Good Morning,” Dorian said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m in need of some potions. You know. For tomorrow.”

Dorian lifted his eyebrows inquisitively. “You’ll be joining the Herald for the closing of the Breach, then?”

“Yep. And the Chargers, too. So I need to stock up on the juice.”

“I see,” Dorian mused. He had heard Cullen and Cassandra talking to their troops about the march to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but he had not expected them to go so soon. Especially since no one really knew exactly _how_ the Herald would close the Breach. Even Solas, the mysterious elven apostate that seemed to know far too much about the Fade and the mark on the Herald’s palm, could not gauge how closing the Breach would affect the man. A small ball of apprehension settled in Dorian’s stomach.

He glanced behind him, at the work space that he and Adan, the herbalist, shared. “Wait here,” he told Bull and walked in.

The Qunari leaned on the door frame casually and crossed his arms, thick like tree trunks, over his enormous chest. Dorian could feel his gaze on his back as he sifted through the many vials on the shelves.

“What’s wrong, Bull? Couldn’t resist examining the ‘Vint’?” he said idly, in a mocking imitation of the Qunari’s thick accent.

Bull snorted. “That what you are? You people all kind of look the same to me.”

Dorian harrumphed as he put the vials in a leather pouch. He handed it over to Bull, and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the view, at least.”

Iron Bull let out a laugh, a soft basso rumble, as he brushed the stubble on his rough cheeks. “I wouldn’t mind enjoying more, if you catch my drift. But there’s too much to do before the big day. Polish my breastplate, sharpen my axe, catch up with the boys…”

A throng of scullery maids passed them by, giving them uneasy looks. Bull winked at them with his one good eye. They gasped, and hurried down along the path.

“Is terrifying the people of Haven in your list of priorities, too?” Dorian said with a sickly sweet smile.

“Oh, don’t you worry about them. Half those girls will be on my knee before the evening’s over.” He proceeded to flash him a big, toothy grin.

Dorian rolled his eyes, and Bull laughed heartily at his reaction. He scratched his scarred chest with a massive finger as he looked up at the Breach. Dorian could have been wrong, but he thought he heard a soft, shaky sigh leaving the Qunari’s lips.

“You’re not anxious about tomorrow, are you?” Dorian asked.

“Anxious? No. The Chargers and I have been through too many battles to be anxious about that sort of thing. Concerned, though… Maybe I am that. No one knows what’s going to come out of that Breach when we get close. When I asked to be hired by the Inquisition I didn’t think I’d have to fight that many demons.” He shuddered slightly. “Blighted demons.”

“Ah, yes,” Dorian said, nodding gravely. “Demons. Never a pleasant enemy.”

“Makes you regret ever joining, right? Far too many of those Fade-things for my liking.”

Dorian glanced up at the Breach, following Bull’s gaze. It promised a bleak sort of future, that was true. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret joining the Inquisition. Not yet, at the very least.

It had never been part of Dorian’s plans. Helping the Herald against Alexius and the Venatori, yes, no matter how much it had hurt to see his former mentor reduced to that. But staying after that… Dorian hadn’t quite known what to expect, at first. Perhaps yet another cult led by someone whose head was filled with far too many Chantry teachings for his own good, a delusional prophet of some sort. But Trevelyan was anything but that.

Certainly, the Herald was not one to inspire confidence and loyalty, at least not straight away. Not with that perpetual frown, and the way he scowled at those who praised him as Andraste’s chosen, or the way he looked at his advisors and the Chantrics over the tip of his nose, as if they existed only to annoy him. But a few conversations with the man, and Dorian had been surprised to find that he was determined and idealistic, if in a somewhat grim and sullen sort of way. That dark blue gaze, almost violet in a certain light, could peer right through you, and his smile, on the rare occasions it appeared, was genuine, even childlike in its honesty. And that adorable flush in his cheeks whenever Dorian teased him…

A small smile spread on his lips. Oh, teasing the Herald was risky. But the temptation of probing him to see what was hidden underneath that broody façade was too big to resist.

_And perhaps see more than that, if I’m lucky._

Oh, there they were. Those delightful thoughts that always got Dorian in a heap of trouble. Admittedly, it had taken him longer than usual to gravitate towards the worst possible person at the worst possible time.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Trevelyan passing through the huts. His pale blonde hair caught the light of the morning, but his frown was so dark, it could have brought the night upon them half a day too soon. Coming back from another council meeting, it seemed. He didn’t even glance at them as he walked towards the tavern.

“There he goes,” Bull said, somewhat sarcastically, as he straightened up. “I’d better go after him. There’s, uh, a lot we need to discuss about the battle tomorrow.” He started to leave, but then stopped. “Why don’t you join us? I’ll buy you a drink. Or two, if you’d like,” he said with a wink.

Dorian rolled his eyes again at the Qunari’s leer, but could not help considering his proposition. Spending some more time with Trevelyan, teasing him just a little bit more to see that slow half smile spreading on his gorgeous face… But he shook his head firmly. Swooning over the Herald of Andraste would not be wise. Not wise at all.

“As tempting as that sounds, I’ll have to decline. It wouldn’t be proper of me to impose on your no doubt very serious war conversation. Run along, now,” he said, waving Bull away as he swung the door closed. Bull’s mocking rumble grated at his nerves as he walked back to his desk.

* * *

Tristan glanced at his companions’ serious faces around the table. A tentative silence had spread among them, thick and heavy.

Bull downed his ale and set his mug on the table with a thud. “Well, what’s it gonna be?” he said, his basso voice vibrating through the room.

“All in,” Tristan said, and pushed the remainder of his coins to the big pile that had formed in the centre of the table.

Varric was arranging his cards in his hands, and scratching the red stubble on his cheeks thoughtfully. Sera’s legs were fidgeting under the table as she muttered something unintelligible to herself, glancing at the hand she had been dealt.

Varric shook his head. “Fold.”

“Sera?” Bull said, turning to the jittery elf.

“Piss and pissing buckets,” she mumbled. She pushed her coin purse forward, chewing her lip. “All in.”

“Alright,” Bull chuckled. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Sera went first, spreading her cards in front of her. “Three of Knights! Eat it!”

“Don’t celebrate just yet, Buttercup,” Varric said, as he watched Tristan lay his cards down.

Sera’s face fell in a frown. “Four of Serpents? Andraste’s tits!”

Tristan folded his arms across his chest, satisfied. He was definitely the winner of that round. He glanced at Bull, who was looking at his cards mournfully. “What do you have, Bull?”

“Oh, nothing much,” he replied with a sigh, and spread his cards.

Tristan stared at the cards, mouth hanging open. “How on earth did you manage to get an Angel of Death?”

“I’ve told you not to bet against a Qunari, Blondie,” Varric chuckled.

Sera jumped on her chair, ranting incoherently. “You friggin’… cheater! You hide the bloody cards up your sleeves!”

Bull’s laughter rumbled across the room. “Where would I hide them? I’m not wearing any sleeves, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You… How the hell should I know? Maybe you Qunaris stuff them down your breeches!”

“You can check my breeches if you want. You might find something else that you like,” Bull said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Ewwww,” Sera said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “No, thanks, I’m off. Arsebiscuit,” she mumbled as she walked away.

“You probably want to keep an eye on that money. I wouldn’t put it beneath her to try to steal it back later,” Varric said with a teasing smile.

“I heard that!” came Sera’s shrill voice from the door. Bull laughed as he leaned forward and brushed all the money from the table towards himself with his enormous hands.

“I can’t believe I lost. That was the best hand I’ve had in days,” Tristan groaned, rubbing his tired eyes.

“Don’t feel so bad, Boss,” Bull replied, as he put the coins in his fat purse. “I gotta say, you’re putting that Inquisition gold to good use.”

“Yeah, well, consider it part of your pay.” Tristan stood up, and almost fell back down on his chair. He hadn’t realised how drunk he was.

“Fine with me,” Bull laughed.

Tristan blinked a couple times to stabilise his swirling vision. “Come, let’s play another round. I’ll win that money back.”

“Not tonight, Boss,” Bull said as he pushed his chair back. “Got a big day tomorrow, remember?”

The Breach. Tristan had tried to get drunk enough to forget about that, but evidently it hadn’t worked. He shook his head and sat back down. “It’s still early enough. Varric, what do you say?” he replied, turning to his trusty dwarf.

“Sorry, Blondie. I’ve got to get back, too. You should go to bed, get some rest. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Tristan said, waving him off. “Alright, you two, get out of here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Boss,” Bull said and patted him on the shoulder as he walked off.

The tavern seemed a lot emptier with them gone. Only a few tables were occupied, and the patrons did not seem so cheery anymore. A couple was sitting in the corner talking softly to each other’s ear, while a man snored with his head resting on the table next to him.

The barkeeper’s voice behind him made him jump. “Shall I bring you anything else, Herald?”

Tristan took a breath to steady his heart. “No, thank you, Flissa. I’ll be on my way.” He emptied his mug and set it on the table. The taste of the stout brew clung to the roof of his mouth as he pushed himself up slowly and staggered towards the door. The frozen wind hit him square in the face, and he retreated further into his cloak. A few steps later, the world came spinning around him, forcing him to lean against the wooden door of a hut. The large, gaping hole in the sky was staring at him menacingly, as if in disapproval.

“Well, I don’t like you either,” he whispered to it, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was lying on a rug in front of a fireplace. The blanket that had been thrown over him had a faint aroma of oakmoss and sandalwood. He blinked a couple of times, letting his gritty, puffy eyes adjust to the light of the room. Next to the fireplace was a small table, with a vase of fresh flowers, a pot of ink and a feather pen. The shelves on the wall were heavy with vials, potions and thick leather bound books, neatly stacked in alphabetical order. That was definitely _not_ his room.

“Well, look who’s decided to join us. And by us, I mean me.”

Tristan sat up on the rug, and felt as if his head would split in two.

“Dorian,” he groaned painfully. The mage was sitting on a wooden chair by the window, sipping something steaming from a dainty porcelain cup. The sunlight streaming through the window was making Tristan’s headache worse, if that was even possible. “What… Why am I here?”

“I was about to ask you the very same thing,” Dorian responded. He leaned back in his chair, leisurely crossing one leg on top of the other. “I was readying myself to go to bed last night, when I heard a noise coming from outside my door. Inquisitive, as always, I opened it. And next thing I knew, there was our Herald, sprawled on my pretty rug. I was quite astounded, as you can imagine.”

Tristan rubbed his temples. He had no recollection of stopping by Dorian’s hut the previous night. In fact, he could not remember much. Only that he had drunk more than his fair share of ale and that his coin purse was empty. He lifted the blanket just a hair and peered down. It was some relief to see that he was still fully clothed.

“I took the liberty of taking off your boots and your coat. Just so you could sleep better. I hope it was not terribly forward of me.”

“No, it’s… that’s fine,” Tristan mumbled. He could already feel his blood rising to his cheeks. At least Dorian had not seen him in his small clothes. The Herald of Andraste, blind drunk and wearing nothing but his underthings. Some sight that would have been.

“I did try to wake you, you know,” Dorian continued. “But you were snoring like an ox. Alas, in the end I gave up and let you sleep where you had fallen. I hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

Tristan pushed the blanket aside, ignoring the pain in his back from the bite of the hard floor. He made as if to stand up, but the world started spinning. The feather pen rattled in its fountain when he attempted to steady himself by grabbing the edge of the small desk.

Deceptively strong arms wrapped around him, and held him steady. He looked up at Dorian’s face, unbearably close to his. Dorian’s brows were furrowed slightly in concern. “Are you alright?”

Tristan blinked, swallowing thickly. He couldn’t remember ever being so close to him, his breath almost brushing against his skin. His heart fluttered awkwardly, and he pushed himself gently away with a sharp nod.

Dorian took a careful step back, placing his hands on his hips. “Let’s get you something warm to drink, shall we?”

He didn’t even wait for a response as he walked over to the small table by the window and sat back down on his chair. “Here, I made you some tea,” Dorian said, pouring the hot liquid in a matching porcelain cup. “Do you take any honey in it?” he asked, reaching for a small clay pot with a carving of a flower on it.

Tristan shook his head as he took the opposite chair to Dorian, and immediately regretted it. His headache, that he had all but forgotten, came back with a vengeance. He brought the cup to his lips and took a long draught, scalding his tongue.

“I made it as strong as I could. Figured you would need it,” Dorian said.

The bitterness of the tea made his eyes water. “It’s certainly strong,” Tristan said, his voice slightly chocked.

Dorian gave him a satisfied mirth as he sipped from his own cup. “That should be enough to get you through today,” he said, glancing at the sky through the foggy windows. Tristan followed his gaze. The Breach was looming over them, threatening as always.

_Fuck!_

His stomach fell to his knees. He had completely forgotten about that.

“What time is it?” he asked Dorian as he jolted bolt upright, searching frantically for his boots. Leliana and Cassandra would definitely have his hide this time if he were late.

“They haven’t left for the Temple yet, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Dorian replied, calmly watching him as he spun around, no doubt like a headless chicken. “Seeker Pentaghast would leave no stone unturned or door on its hinges if you didn’t turn up on time.”

“Oh.” It took a couple of breaths for Tristan’s heart to fall back in its place. He stood in the middle of the room awkwardly for a moment, smoothing his palms over his wrinkled doublet. Avoiding Dorian’s gaze as best he could, he sat back down on the chair, his back as straight as he could make it. Absently, he realised just how dishevelled he must look. He ran his hands through his hair, hoping to smooth it down. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I… I must look like a mess.”

Dorian’s silvery laugh bounced off the walls of the small room. “That would be putting it mildly. I trust you had a good time last night at the tavern, at least?”

“It was just a small feast for… well, in preparation for today,” Tristan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Evidently, I had a few more drinks than I should. I don’t usually show up at people’s doorstep in the middle of night.”

“Does that mean I’m the exception? I’m honoured and flattered, Herald,” Dorian said with a smile, sipping on his tea.

“That’s… that’s not what I…” Tristan stammered. _Get a hold of yourself, man!_

Dorian was watching him with keen eyes. The slightly mocking half smile on his face did not make things any better. Dorian must think him a hopeless drunk and a fool. He was no doubt finding this whole charade incredibly funny. A sharp pang of embarrassment hit him as he glanced about, letting the absurdity of the situation sink in.

Tristan took a breath in an effort to steady his voice. “I should probably go. I’ve disturbed you enough for one day,” he said, standing up. He bid Dorian farewell with a bow that was much too formal and started walking towards the door.

Dorian blinked at him, a startled expression on his face that lasted only for a moment before it melted into a polite smile. “Not at all, Herald,” he replied, standing up as well. “You can stop by anytime. It would be my pleasure to put you up on my rug again. Oh, and don’t forget your boots. Wouldn’t want to run around barefoot in this weather.”

Tristan bit his lip, wondering if there was any way he could embarrass himself any more that day. He hopped awkwardly on one leg as he pulled his boots on, and with a polite nod to Dorian turned towards the door. He was just about to turn the door handle when he froze.

“You, uh….” He started, and then stopped. It had only then occurred to him how odd it would look to any passer-by to see him coming out of Dorian’s hut at that hour of the morning, his clothes obviously worn in from the night before. If people were whispering about him and Dorian now, he did not even want to know what they would be saying in that scenario.

There was no easy way to ask what he was about to without sounding completely mad. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You don’t happen to have a back door, do you?”

Dorian blinked a couple times, then gave him an amused smile as he caught on his meaning. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m afraid not. But I do have a back window, if you’re interested,” he said, and gestured towards a small window at the back of the hut, overlooking the Chantry Building.

If something looked more sinister than coming out of Dorian’s front door, it would be someone catching him jumping out of his back window. He smiled as politely as he could and shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Again, sorry for bothering you.”

He twisted the door latch and walked out with as much dignity as he had left. He stole a glance at the swirling, angry hole in the sky, aggravating like a bloody eye sore. Oddly, it didn’t look as menacing anymore. Perhaps with some luck, it would pull him into the Fade and save him the embarrassment of seeing Dorian again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xo


	5. Brave

The trek up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes was as cumbersome as Tristan remembered. Cassandra was hopping up the stairs two steps at a time while he lumbered breathlessly behind her. His knees were practically trembling when they finally reached the charred remains of its gates. He almost laughed at how out of shape he was. A few practice sessions with Blackwall would do wonders for his stamina once he got back. 

_If I get back_ , a small voice reminded him. He did his best to ignore it.

The huge tear in the sky crackled and writhed above them, sending jolts of energy up the mark on his hand. Within the few months since the explosion, it had grown from a few fine lines on his palm to a network of scars past his wrist. Solas had said that if the Breach wasn’t closed, the mark would spider its way to his heart until it eventually killed him. 

_If I even live that long_ , the small voice whispered again.

He tightened his fists and clenched his jaw as he took a few steps forward. The mages were waiting patiently in their ranks behind him, ready to channel all of their energy to the Breach, but he felt all alone. Just him and it, the crack in the sky that threatened to swallow him whole. He felt rather than heard Solas approach him.

“It is time,” he said, his voice low, but full of determination. It was comforting, somewhat, to know that at least one of them was determined. “Are you ready?”

Tristan wanted to scream _“no”_ at the top of his lungs and flee, but he nodded instead. The elf’s eyes grew dark for a moment before he turned to the mages.

“Mages!” he exclaimed. “Focus past the Herald! Let his will draw from you!”

The mark on Tristan’s hand burned, pulsating rhythmically. He felt raw energy racing through it as he lifted it towards the chasm in the sky. It seemed so far away, high above him, but in an instant it felt like he was there, in it, around it, floating between this world and the gaping, horrible emptiness of the Fade. He screamed as it pushed and pulled and erupted in green flames around him, sending jolts of pain through his body. 

Then there was nothing.

A shiny bald head was the first thing he saw as he came to.

He was in his bed. Solas was sitting next to him, bent over Tristan’s hand as he examined the mark on it. He straightened his back when he noticed Tristan’s eyelids fluttering, and placed his hand carefully back on the bed. “Good evening, Herald,” he said. 

Tristan sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked around the room. Someone had tended to the fire, making the hut properly warm for once. There was a jug of fresh water and a cup on the table next to the hearth, which brought to his attention that his throat was parched. As if he could read his mind, Solas stood up and filled the cup with water, then brought it back to him as he sat back down on his chair. Tristan managed to nod in thanks before gulping it down thirstily. 

“How long was I out?” he asked, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Two days, more or less,” Solas replied calmly. “You fell unconscious after closing the Breach.”

Tristan’s heart thumped in his chest. “So… is it over?”

A hint of confusion passed over Solas’s features, but it was quickly gone. “The mark on your hand has stopped growing, as I predicted. That should give us enough time to find out more about it. The sky is scarred, but calm. Many questions yet remain, but the immediate danger has passed.”

“That’s good to hear,” Tristan said distractedly as he examined the mark on his hand. It looked like a normal scar running over his skin. Nothing unusual about it. Barely conspicuous. For once, he felt neither pain nor the tingling sensation that he had become accustomed to ever since he got it. It was an odd thought, but it suddenly didn’t feel as strange on him. It was like it was a part of his hand, as surely as his fingers and his muscles were.

“Is the mark troubling you?”

Tristan lifted his eyes to find Solas’s inquisitive gaze on him. He shook his head and glanced at his hand again. “Not really. I’m just thinking…” He let out a long sigh. “This mark feels… almost natural to me. As if it was always meant to be there. As if... all the decisions I’ve made have brought me to this.” He eyed Solas, who was watching him intently. “Do you believe in fate, Solas?”

Solas looked at him, but it was like he was gazing past him, far into the distance. “I believe that each of us forges their own fate. There’s no divine plan, moving the world forward. Of this, I'm certain.”

“You don’t think I’m a chosen one, then? That's a relief.” 

“Every war has a chosen one. A hero.” He fixed his dark grey eyes on Tristan. “I’m curious what kind you’ll be.”

Tristan’s mouth twisted sourly. “Hopefully one that won’t set the whole damn world on fire,” he said quietly. 

They stayed silent for a while, the crackling of the fire and the commotion from outside the only sound between them. Solas stood up and threw his cloak about his shoulders. “You should join the celebrations for the closing of the Breach as soon as you’re ready. The people of Haven will be expecting you.”

“Of course,” Tristan said, his sarcasm unmistakeable. “It wouldn’t do to reduce morale now.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Solas said solemnly. With a last, lingering glance at him he turned towards the door. “So long, Herald.”

After thoroughly stretching his aching limbs and putting on his leather armour, Tristan walked out of his hut. The celebrations for closing the Breach had already begun. Fires had been lit throughout the camp, with plenty of music, food and drink. The sounds of song and jest were carried swiftly through the cold air to his even colder ears. He ascended the wide stone stairs leading to the upper layer of Haven amidst cheers and merry laughter. Everyone was smiling. He hated to admit that it made him feel quite proud. He quickened his step, determined not to get used to the feeling.

With a quick glance around, he easily spotted what he was looking for – a short, stubby fellow with an ornate crossbow slung over his shoulder, a wide grin and more chest hair than anyone had a right to. Varric was holding what was probably not the first mug of ale of the evening, and narrating what was definitely one of his funnier stories from Kirkwall. Sera was laughing heartily, spilling most of her drink in the process, while Dorian was sipping on his wine in between throaty chuckles. His eyes were glinting with keen interest as he listened to Varric’s tale, his glossy black curls catching the amber light from the fire every time he threw his head back in laughter.

Tristan’s steps slowed to almost a halt. Painfully embarrassing memories from when he had last seen the dark-haired mage flashed before him. The urge to return to his hut, tail between his legs, was tempting, but he couldn't well do that now. Not with so many people staring. The only option was to stand straight, walk towards them, get a drink, and act as lordly and graciously as he could while pretending that nothing at all had happened.

“Blondie!” Varric exclaimed with a wide grin holding his ale mug high up in the air. 

Someone shoved a mug of ale in Tristan’s hands as he approached, and soon everyone around him was toasting to him, shouting praises to the Herald of Andraste and his bravery. Tristan took a hearty sip of his ale, intent on hiding the crimson flush on his face behind the rim of his mug. 

“Cheer up, Herald. The people love you,” Dorian said with a smile after the clamour had died down. “You did save the day, after all.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Tristan said sharply. Then, flinching inwardly at his curt tone, he let his mouth curl in a small smile. “I would hardly call almost being killed by a hole in the sky ‘saving the day’.”

“Brave _and_ modest. I have to say, Herald, you never cease to impress. I wonder what the Chantry historians will write about you.”

“That I was a madman and a heretic, probably. I have a feeling that Brother Genitivi would consider setting his books on fire and diving in a pool of holy water after a brief conversation with me.”

Dorian’s chuckle came out muffled behind the rim of his mug. Tristan’s smile got wider and wider, and soon he was chuckling, too. Varric glanced at them curiously from across the fire as they both shook with laughter. Dorian’s eyes were shining, the golden flecks in them catching the light of the flames when he looked at Tristan. 

Maker, but he was beautiful.

The thought came naturally, unbidden, as if it had always been there. It wasn’t a mere observation, like it had been other times, but a profound realisation. Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus, was beautiful, striking, bewitching, in every sense of the word. Tristan wondered that he had not fully realised that before. Oh, he had noticed how attractive Dorian was the first time they had met, and every time he saw him thereafter. But not like this. Never like this. He paused for a moment, vaguely aware that he was staring.

Dorian raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “Is everything alright?”

Tristan came back to his senses with a start. “Of course,” he said, glancing away. He hastily sipped on his drink, wondering if someone had slipped something in it when he wasn’t looking.

From the corner of his eye he saw Cassandra approaching him. He tried to ignore her, but when she came and stood right beside him, he had to face her. 

“Seeker,” Tristan said with a curt nod. He noticed that Dorian had made himself conveniently scarce as soon as she appeared.

“Herald,” she replied. “Are you feeling better?”

The warm smile on her face surprised him. He wasn’t used to the grumpy warrior regarding him with any sort of fondness. It made her look almost…friendly. “I’m quite alright, thank you.” He peered at the place in the sky where the Breach used to be. The scar that it had left on the heavens was still visible. “The Breach has finally been sealed.”

“We’ve reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread.”

“Has it?” he smiled. There it was again. Pride. He cleared his throat and looked away, over the campfires. “I wasn’t alone in this. You know how many were involved. Fate put me at the centre.”

Cassandra nodded as she followed his gaze. “You are right. This was a victory of alliance, one of few in recent memory. But that does not change the role you played in it. You were… very brave.”

The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. Had he not been sober, he would have doubted his own ears. He looked at her, and was startled to see the admiration reaching her eyes as well. He smiled at her, and for the first time it was not forced. “Thank you, Cassandra. I-“

The sound of frantically ringing alarm bells made him forget what he was about to say. The music and laughter died down abruptly, and everyone looked at each other, searching for the cause of the alarm. He turned around to look past Haven’s wooden gates and his jaw dropped.

An army, the largest he had ever seen, was marching towards them. 

Before he could realise what was happening, Cullen was running past him. “Forces approaching! To arms!”

“What-“ Tristan started, but Cassandra grabbed his arm. 

“We must go to the gates!” she said, drawing him forward.

Varric and Dorian ran to his side, the same panicked expression on their faces as he imagined he must have had. “What’s going on?” Varric asked, panting.

“We’re being attacked” Tristan replied, not quite believing it himself. His hands instinctively fell to the daggers hanging by his belt. He ran after Cassandra, Varric and Dorian at his heels. 

They pushed their way through the crowd gathered by the gates until they reached Cullen. He was pacing up and down barking orders, the soldiers running wildly around him as they fell into formation. 

“One watch guard reported a massive force, the bulk over the mountain,” he told them as soon as they approached him.

Tristan shook his head in disbelief. “Under what banner?”

“None,” Cullen replied, his voice edged with worry. “No banner, no communication, no demands. Nothing.”

A loud bang on the main gate drew all of their attentions to it. 

“What in the Maker’s name-“ Cassandra started, but another bang drowned her words.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” a voice from outside pleaded.

“Was anyone left outside?” Tristan turned to Cassandra, but she just shrugged, confused. Without waiting, he ran to the gates and unbarred them. A young man, his leather armour more than a little dishevelled and his face obscured by a wide brim hat, was standing before him. Several dead bodies of armed men were sprawled at his feet. The daggers in his hands were dripping with blood.

“I’m Cole,” he said, panting. “I came to warn you- to help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know-“

“What is this?” Tristan stopped him, struggling to make sense of what the stranger was saying. He glanced at the dead men, blood still pumping from their wounds. Their coat of arms was foreign to him. “What’s going on?”

“The Templars come to kill you,” the man that called himself Cole replied quietly, his voice suddenly bleak and emotionless.

“The Templars?” Cullen growled as he advanced towards them, making the boy recoil in fear. “Is this the order’s response after our talks with the mages, attacking blindly?”

“I have an inkling they weren’t particularly pleased about it,” Dorian said behind them.

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him?” Cole whispered, drawing closer to Tristan. “He knows you. You took his mages. There,” he said, pointing at the mountain range behind them. The Templar army was spilling over the top of the mountain, the neat lines of soldiers covering the ground towards them steadily, like ants. A dark and abnormally tall figure emerged at the summit, leading them. “He’s very angry that you took his mages.”

“Cullen,” Tristan said, his stomach tightening in knots. This was way beyond his comprehension, and they needed to act fast. “Give me a plan. Anything.”

“Take that, you filth!” Dorian screamed as he threw a fireball at a Templar’s face. The latter fell on the ground, writhing. Tristan could actually hear the man’s blood boiling inside his armour. Ordinarily, that would be enough to bring his supper up, but there was no time now to even allow himself to feel sick. Wave after wave of Red Templars were coming at them, swords and axes drawn, teeth bared, eyes glowing red from the red lyrium flowing in their veins. A particularly angry one was almost upon him, and Tristan barely managed to step back in time to dodge his attack. With a quick leap, he found himself at the man’s back, where he plunged both his daggers between the gaps in his armour. The Templar groaned as he staggered and fell to his knees. Tristan raised his dagger to finish him off when an arrow flew through the man’s head, and he fell face-first in the snow.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Varric said, looking around from his vantage point on the top of an upturned carriage.

Tristan wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The snow beneath their feet had turned to red mush. The stench of blood and burnt flesh clung to his nostrils like tar. He placed the daggers back in his belt and made his way towards the last trebuchet. With his hands on its wooden handle, he took a deep breath and pushed for dear life. 

“This… is…too hard,” he said when it didn’t budge an inch.

“I’ll help,” Cassandra replied and grabbed the other side of the handle.

Dorian shook his head as he pulled out a lyrium potion out of his satchel. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands, Seeker. I’m not going anywhere near this cursed apparatus. I think I threw my back out trying to aim the last one.”

“Perhaps you should have taken up Blackwall on that offer to help you exercise, Sparkler,” Varric laughed, throwing his crossbow over his shoulder.

“And spend my precious time with that hairy lummox instead of running around the countryside, killing random strangers? Perish the thought,” the mage replied, downing the potion. 

How these two were able to jest when all of them were on the brink of disaster, Tristan could hardly understand. The trebuchet was finally turned to position, and both he and Cassandra were heaving with the effort. “Everybody stand back!” he yelled. When they were all at a safe distance, he fired.

A loud, crashing noise filled the valley as the large stone from the trebuchet landed on the side of the mountain, causing an avalanche. The cries of the Templars being buried under it was deafening.

“You showed them how it’s done, Blondie,” Varric smiled, tapping Tristan on the back. “Let’s go to-“

He hadn’t even finished his sentence when the trebuchet exploded in flames. A huge shadow darkened the sky above them, followed by an ear-splitting screech.

“A dragon?” Dorian breathed. “Was that an actual dragon?”

“More like… an archdemon.” Cassandra was following the beast with her eyes as if she were in a dream.

Tristan’s blood curdled in his veins. If that was an archdemon… did that mean that this was another Blight? Right at their doorstep? _Oh, this is wonderful. Just bloody wonderful._

“To the gates!” he yelled, sprinting forward. “Everyone back to the gates!”

They all flew towards Haven so fast, one would have thought they had not spent the better part of the evening fighting off crazed, red-lyrium filled Templars. Cullen was standing at the gate, holding it open. When all of them were safely in, he pushed the heavy oaken doors shut. Tristan bent forward to rest his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

“We need everyone back at the Chantry! It’s the only building that might hold against that… that beast,” the Commander said. His forehead was slick with sweat, his breath creating thick, white tufts in the air as he spoke. 

Dorian was suddenly next to him. “Let’s go,” he whispered, putting his arm around Tristan’s back to help him forward. Tristan straightened up and followed him up the big stone stairs towards the Chantry building. 

A muffled scream from a burning hut nearby drew Tristan’s attention. Exchanging a glance, both he and Dorian ran towards it. The wooden building was slowly being engulfed in flames, but the frantic screams and banging from inside made Tristan’s breath catch in his throat.

“They’re trapped inside,” he gasped.

Dorian nodded, his brows drawn down in grim determination. He gripped his staff firmly and took a step forward. “Stand back!” he yelled at the people inside. With a flick of his fingers the door exploded, splinters flying in every direction. 

Flissa, the innkeeper, was on the ground, and next to her a man. Tristan recognised him as one of Harrit’s, the blacksmith’s, assistants. It was a face that was hard not to recognise, dark haired and bushy bearded, with a scar that ran from the top of his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek. Tristan ran to help him carry Flissa out. 

“She’s unconscious, my lord,” the man said, his voice choked by the smoke and the flames. “I tried to…”

A loud creak sounded from right above them drowned out his words, and several heavy planks fell around them. Tristan lunged at the man, pulling him out of the way of a wooden beam that fell inches away from him. They both tumbled to the ground, raising a cloud of dust and smouldering ashes.

Tristan’s eyes were burning from the smoke and the dust. “Are you alright?” he asked the man, scrambling up to his feet. The man was simply staring behind Tristan, eyes wide in shock.

Tristan turned around, only to see a mountain of burning wood lying where Flissa had been. His stomach was seized in an icy grip. Like the man beside him, all he could do was stare at what was certainly Flissa’s lifeless body underneath the ruins.

Dorian’s voice stirred him out of his shock. “We have to go!” he shouted, grabbing him and the other man and pulling them outside. As soon as they walked out, most of the hut, or what remained of it, fell down with a loud thud. 

Watching the flames and smoke rise high up in the night sky, Tristan thought he was really going to be sick this time.

The three of them ran to the Chantry Building, coughing and wheezing. Chancellor Roderick was at the Chantry doors, helping the injured get inside. His own robe was crimson red, clinging to his body. “Move! Keep going! The Chantry is your shelter,” he kept saying, his voice thick with pain. The doors were barred with a heavy steel rod as soon as everyone was inside. 

The Chancellor took a step before he collapsed. As if he had emerged from the shadows, Cole caught the old man right before he hit the ground. “He tried to stop a Templar,” Cole said matter-of-factly. “The blade went deep. He’s going to die.”

“What a… charming boy,” the Chancellor managed to say before his face contorted in pain. 

“Herald,” Tristan heard Cullen say behind him. He turned around meet the Commander’s solemn gaze. “Our position isn’t good. That… thing”- he grimaced as he said it- “has stolen back any time you might have given us.”

“I’ve seen an Archdemon in the Fade” Cole said, as if talking to himself. “It looked just like that.”

Cullen flinched as if Cole had pricked him with a needle. “I don’t care what it looks like!” he growled. “It’s cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven!”

Cole blinked at him like the Commander was saying the most absurd thing. “The Elder doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

“Why? Why does he want me? What have I ever done to him?” Tristan blurted out, his voice choked with his anger. His heart was beating so hard, his ears were buzzing. His patience was getting thinner by the second.

“I don’t know. He’s too loud. It hurts to hear him,” Cole muttered, shaking his head. “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll kill them anyway. I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like…?” Cullen grunted in frustration before turning to Tristan. “Herald, there is no way to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche you caused. We could turn these trebuchets, create one last slide…”

Tristan simply gaped at the Commander, his breath catching in his throat. “To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven. And us with it.“ 

“We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.” The Commander’s brows were furrowed, his lips a tight line. He really looked like a man who was ready to die, who had made amends with the possibility long ago.

Fear slithered up Tristan's spine, its icy tentacles freezing him to the core. He regarded Cullen levelly, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice steady. “We can't go down like this, Cullen. Not without a fight. There’s got to be another way.” 

A faint cough came from Chancellor Roderick’s direction. “There is… there is a path,” he whispered, struggling to sit up on the chair. “You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the pilgrimage, as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me… Andraste must have shown me, so I could… tell you.” 

Tristan glared at the cleric. “What are you on about, Roderick?” he spat, annoyance bubbling inside him. Of all the times in his life he might have needed to hear about Andraste or whatever other nonsense Chantrics spouted left and right, this must have been the worst possible one. 

The old man took a laboured breath, and fixed his eyes on Tristan. His eyes had taken on an odd, glazed expression. “It was a whim that I took this path, years ago. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers… I don’t know, Herald.” He winced at the pain, but he held Tristan’s gaze intently. “If this simple memory can save us…” The man sank back in his chair, placing a bloodied hand at his side.

Tristan turned to the Commander. “What about it, Cullen? Will it work?”

Cullen regarded the Chancellor carefully, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Possibly. If he shows us the path. But what about your escape?”

Tristan looked away, his stomach in knots as he tried to force himself to think of something, anything. The Chantry building was full to the brim with injured soldiers, men and women clutching the only belongings they had managed to salvage from the attack, children clinging to their parents, too terrified to even cry. They were all watching him and Cullen, their eyes wide and glittering in the near dark, their breaths bated. 

A sudden, violent rage flooded him. That damned Elder One, or whatever he was called, would stop at nothing until he got his hands on him, even if it meant cutting down hundreds of innocent people. Who the hell did that bastard think he was, sweeping in and destroying everything and everyone in his path, as if they were nothing but ants to be crushed under the heel of his boot?

“Never mind me,” he heard himself say in a low growl. “Get the people out of here. I’ll find my own way out.” 

Cullen’s eyes shone with steely determination. He turned abruptly towards the crowd standing behind them. “Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!”

Cole placed the Chancellor’s arm over his shoulders and pulled him up. The man groaned as he took a step. His robe was dripping with blood and his face was ashen. “Herald… If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this… I pray for you.”

Tristan nodded grimly before he ran to the door. Perhaps, this once, a prayer might actually save him. 

Tristan ran out of the Chantry Building, Cassandra, Varric and Dorian at his heel.

“We have to keep the archdemon’s attention on us if the others are to have a chance,” he said, following the path towards the remaining trebuchet.

“Being noticed happens to be a specialty of mine,” Dorian said, twirling his staff in a flourish.

Swords hissing and battle cries greeted them as they neared the trebuchets. Without missing a breath, Cassandra drew her sword and leapt into battle. The man approaching her was tall and built like a tree-trunk. With a roar, he lifted his enormous axe over his shoulder and brought it back down to crush her. Stepping to the side with more elegance than Tristan would have ever imagined, she brushed the axe away with her sturdy shield and plunged her sword into his neck. He only made a gurgling sound before he collapsed. 

Dorian was hurling spell after spell, laughing maniacally as he watched the Templars disperse in panic, while Varric, situated on the platform of the trebuchet, was picking them apart with his crossbow, one by one. 

“Keep them off me!” Tristan told Varric as he ran to the trebuchet. With as much strength as he could muster, he pushed the handle, aiming the trebuchet towards the mountain.

“You got it, Blondie!” the dwarf shouted nocking an arrow. By the time Tristan had finished aiming the trebuchet, only one Templar remained standing. With one swift blow, Cassandra finished him and he fell to the ground with a thud.

“Ready to fire?” she said, placing her sword in its scabbard. Tristan nodded and placed his hand on the lever.

A fireball exploded next to the trebuchet, knocking Tristan on his back. He pushed himself up, looking around him frantically through the thick cloud of smoke. The flapping of enormous wings echoed everywhere around them, but the archdemon was nowhere to be seen. 

“The trebuchet is on fire!” Cassandra exclaimed. 

Dorian cast an ice spell, quenching the flames. “That should do it,” he said, dusting his robes.

“Where is the Archdemon? Can you see it?” Tristan looked around, straining his neck.

“I can’t see it, but I can hear it. And it doesn’t sound good,” Varric said.

The earth trembled with the thundering roar, and Tristan finally spotted the beast. It was flying right above them, circling them slowly when it stopped abruptly and prepared to dive towards them.

“Run,” he muttered under his breath as he took a step back. “Move! Now!” he yelled at the others, that were staring at the dragon wide-eyed. Tristan’s panicked screams shook them out of their daze, and they started running towards the Chantry. Sprinting after them, he stole a glance at the fiend over his shoulder. Suddenly, he found himself face-first in the snow when he tripped on a rock.

“Herald!” Dorian shouted and turned back to help him. With a sharp wave, Tristan stopped him. 

“Go! Run!” he said, pushing himself up. Dorian stared at him, unmoving. “Just go!” Tristan shouted desperately at him, arms flailing. Finally, with a pained grimace, Dorian turned around and followed the others. Tristan stood and watched his form disappear behind the clouds of dust and smoke, wasting precious seconds that he could have used for his own escape. Right then, suspended in a moment that felt never ending, he couldn't really bring himself to care about that. At least one of them would have a chance to get the hell out of that place.

His tentative relief didn't last very long. The gust of wind that hit him when the enormous beast landed in front of him pushed him flat on his back. Its eyes, peering at him from under thick, rock-like skin, were glowing like embers in the night. 

“Pretender,” a deep and raucous voice said behind him. It looked like a man, or what once might have been a man, but its features and body were twisted and shaped beyond recognition, red lyrium crystals sprouting from its abnormally large skull. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.”

“What are you?” Tristan yelled, hauling himself up to his feet. More than fear, he felt anger. Hot, burning anger, directed at the cause of all this pain and destruction. “Why are you doing this?”

The creature took a step forward, its long, spindly legs crushing the snow and ice beneath him. “Exalt the Elder One. The will that is Corypheus.” He lifted a bony arm, and pointed a long and sharp claw at Tristan. “I am here for the Anchor that you have stolen. The process of removing it begins now.”

The trebuchet fired with a loud, thunderous crash. Before drowning in a sea of white, Tristan remarked absently that being brave was perhaps a little overrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! :)


	6. Memory of a Dream

The sound of howling wind echoed as if from a distance when Tristan opened his eyes. Blinding, throbbing pain was the only thing his senses could perceive for what felt like hours before he managed to push himself on his feet.

His hand touched smooth stone. He was in a cave. All was dark except for a small, imperceptible light in the distance. With effort, he forced himself to move towards it, supporting himself on the cave walls.

Every step made him more and more aware of the pitiful condition his body was in. His arm socket and wrist were pulsing painfully where that… creature had grabbed him and lifted him off the ground, shaking him about like a puppet. A quick pat down his sides made it clear that he had broken at least two ribs during his fall. His feet were numb. He didn't even know what time it was, or if it was day or night. And to add pain to injury, his stomach growled like a disgruntled bear. Just bloody perfect.

Groaning and mumbling curses while staggering on in the dark, he soon found himself at the cave opening. The snow was falling so thickly, he could barely see a few feet ahead. Squinting, he searched for a landmark, anything familiar that might help him recognise where he was. It didn't take long to bitterly admit to himself that it was useless. He sat down at the mouth of cave to catch his breath, and the hopelessness of his situation crushed him like a boulder.

He was alone. He was completely alone, and he had no idea which way to go. Even if he died there, no one would ever find him.

His everite ring glinted in the half dark, and he gently brushed his thumb over it. The familiar movement jolted some sort of sullen determination within him. _I can’t die here,_ he thought. _Not like this._ He hauled himself up, took one step out of the cave, and immediately sank up to his knees in the snow. Pulling it out was so painful, it almost knocked the air out of his lungs. He glanced at the upward slope ahead of him and shivered. It would be a long, excruciating night.

Silently, he cursed himself as he wobbled awkwardly ahead. What on earth had possessed him, going out there and facing that beast? The scene in the Chantry building was playing over and over in his head, with the people watching him and that stupid, righteous anger overtaking him. Everyone, even those that had openly opposed him, had turned to him as if he were a saviour. And he had willingly stepped in to play the part.

He couldn’t help a slow, mirthful chuckle. The disgraced son of the Trevelyan family, that had once been the primary source of gossip for Ostwick nobility, was now regarded as the only person capable of delivering the people from madness and destruction. And wasn’t he, in a way? With that blasted mark on his hand, he had managed to seal the scar in the heavens and banish demons. Why not beat archdemons and self-proclaimed Gods while he was at it?

Worst of all was that he had agreed, once again, to do it. Blight, he had even _suggested_ it. He had placed his life on the line to save others. People that he liked, and people that he loathed, some that he had exchanged a couple words with, and many that he didn’t know at all. Even those damned Chantrics, that seemed to exist only to irritate him, like annoying, buzzing flies. He had stepped forward, and wagered his hide just so they could have a chance to escape. Was he going mad?

But then again, hadn’t he always been a little mad?

He chuckled softy to himself as he wobbled through waist-deep snow. If Tilly was watching him from somewhere, he would bet all his gold, and his fancy daggers too, that she was having the laugh of a lifetime.

He didn’t know how long he had been trudging through the storm before his knees finally gave way. Ice and snow on his face was the last thing he felt as darkness took him.

A pink and golden sun dipped slowly below the horizon. The grass was soft where Tristan lay. The light from the setting sun felt warm against his skin, and the wind blowing through the apple trees made the leaves stir.

Tilly was picking flowers a little way ahead. Her hands were full of lilies, and she was wearing that yellow dress that she loved. It billowed in the wind, its fabric rippling as she moved.

She turned to look at him and smiled. Her hair fell around her face like a halo, so pale blonde it almost looked white.

“Get up, sleepy head,” she laughed. “We have to go back to town. We’ll miss the fireworks.”

Tristan had forgotten all about the Summer day celebrations. The town square must have been full of people already. He groaned as he sat up.

“We can see the fireworks from here.”

“Not as clearly,” she said, hopping to his side. “Come, let’s go.” The everite ring that he had gifted her glistened on her finger when she extended her hand to him.

“Let’s stay a little bit longer,” he pleaded.

She frowned, placing her hands on her hips. “We’re late already. Mother will be expecting us.”

With a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet. The last thing he wanted was to go back to Ostwick, but he hated to see her frown.

“Come on, it will be fun!” The mischievous glint that he knew so well flickered in her eyes when she looked at him. “I’ll race you to the horses.”

Her hair bounced as she ran, and her bubbly laugh echoed strangely in his ears. _Don’t go_ , he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. His heart tightened as he watched her draw further away.

_Please, stay with me._

The dream dissipated like smoke in the wind as Tristan landed slowly in a cold and painful wakefulness. For a long moment, while reality took form around him, he thought he was still gazing at a pair of blue eyes, so dark they looked like deep, whirling pools. A mirror of his own.

“What would you have me tell them? This isn’t what we asked them to do!”

“We cannot simply ignore this. We must find a way!”

“And who put you in charge? We need a consensus or we have nothing!”

The loud, bickering voices grated at his nerves. His body was heavy and stiff, and his head felt like it would split in two. He blinked a stray tear away as he tried to make sense of what was going on around him.

He was in a tent. There were several thick blankets on top of him, but he still felt frozen and numb. The voices outside… they sounded familiar. A man, and two women. He tried to push himself up to get a better look, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Shhh. You need rest,” a soft voice told him.

A woman wearing a chantry bonnet, her robes red and white, was sitting next to him. Her face was dark and wrinkled, and her eyes regarded him kindly as she helped him back down on his pillow.

“Mother Giselle,” he croaked, and was immediately taken over by a coughing fit that brought stabbing pains to his injured side.

The woman pressed a cup of water to his lips, and he drank thirstily, not paying mind to the liquid dripping down his cheeks. “Where am I?” he grunted after resting back on his pillow.

“You are safe,” she replied. “You were found lying in the snow not two miles away from our camp. Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra had been leading search parties all night to no avail, until one of their scouts spotted you. Most did not believe you had survived the avalanche, but they persisted. And then, you appeared. As if by a miracle.” The sister was smiling at him warmly, patting his forehead with her handkerchief.

Tristan closed his eyes and breathed as shallowly as he could, every inhale only increasing his agony. His arm was bandaged, and the sweet and slightly astringent scent of elfroot ointment lingered on his clothes and blankets.

“You were terribly injured,” Mother Giselle continued, seeing him wince. “You were all but frozen when they found you, and had a terrible fever. It hasn’t broken yet, but it’s getting better. _You’re_ getting better.”

He was only half listening to her. The pain and whatever it was the healers had given him were making him hazy, hardly capable of coherent thought. He almost drifted back into a light sleep, when he cracked his eyes open and stared at Mother Giselle.

“What about the others?” he asked breathlessly. “Did they make it back to the Chantry? Cassandra, Varric… Dorian?”

The woman’s mouth twisted imperceptibly at the sound of Dorian’s name, but her voice was soothing when she spoke. “They are all well. They made it out safely.”

Tristan slumped back down on his pillow, relief washing over him. Cullen, Leliana and Cassandra were arguing amongst themselves outside the tent. Josephine chimed in occasionally, perhaps in an attempt to quieten their spirits, but was often met with backlash and more shouting. “It sounds like they have been at it for hours.”

“They have that luxury, thanks to you. The enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting may threaten us as much as this Corypheus.”

Corypheus… In his feverish haze, he had forgotten to ask about the most important thing. “What happened after the avalanche? Do we know where Corypheus and his forces are?”

“We… are not sure where _we_ are,” she said thoughtfully. “Which may be why, despite the numbers he commands, there is still no sign of him. That, or you are believed dead.”

So Corypheus was still out there, looking for him. “If they’re arguing about what we do next, I need to be there” Tristan said with determination.

“Another heated voice won’t help, even yours. Perhaps especially yours.” She paused to look outside the tent, where Cullen was pacing up and down, and Cassandra was shouting, gesturing wildly. “Our leaders struggle because of what we have witnessed. We saw our Defender stand, and fall. And now we have seen him return. The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear, and the more our trials seem ordained. That is difficult to accept, no? What we have been called to endure? What, perhaps, we must come to believe?”

Tristan groaned, half in pain, half in frustration. Could a Chantric ever go five minutes without talking about faith, or belief, or whatever other nonsense they fill their heads with in the Chantry? “I escaped the avalanche, perhaps barely. But I did not die. Anyone who thinks that is either denser than an oak trunk, or has listened to too many tales and songs for their own good,” he spat, possibly with a bit more vehemence than was deserved.

The old woman listened to his outburst calmly, her expression never changing. “Of course,” she said after he had finished. “The dead cannot return from beyond the veil. But the people know what they saw, or perhaps what they needed to see. The Maker works both in the moment, and how it is remembered. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?”

“So, the people think that I have been sent straight from the Maker. Does believing something make it true?” Tristan said, grimacing with pain and annoyance. “What about Corypheus, then? He believes he has a claim to the heavens. Perhaps if he wishes it strongly enough, it will become true as well.”

Mother Giselle regarded him calmly for a moment, as if she had not picked up on his sarcasm. “If even a shred of what Corypheus says is true, all the more reason Andraste would choose someone to rise against him.”

Her sombre tone made him feel like an indignant child, lashing out at everyone around him for want of better judgement. Still, agreeing to the existence of a godly plan with him in the centre was more than he could concede to at that moment. “Mother Giselle,” he started, putting on his most serious scowl, “I just don’t see how what I believe matters. Lies or not, Corypheus is a living, breathing threat. We can’t match that with faith alone.”

The woman looked away, beyond the opening of the tent. She did not try to refute his words, or argue with him, and that made him feel even more petulant. It was infuriating.

The argument from outside had quieted down. Perhaps they had finally reached a consensus, or simply agreed to disagree. In any case, he had to force himself out there despite his injuries. Steeling himself against the pain, he tried to push himself up onto his elbows. Hot, blinding agony filled him as the stitches at his side tore open, and once again he was fading in blackness.

Tristan examined the blade of his dagger, glimmering in the morning sun. Running his finger on its sharp edge, he was surprised to see it draw a tiny bit of blood, even though he only applied the pressure of a feather on it. Perhaps he had worked it too much on the whetstone the previous day. He sucked on the line of blood forming on the tip of his index finger, and placed the dagger back on his belt.

Languidly, he leaned back on his elbows on the large feather bed, and inspected his new quarters. The desk in the corner was dark mahogany, with a plush leather chair and a golden fountain pen. The library behind it was stocked full of books, all leather bound and most of them rare editions, he assumed. The chest of drawers next to his bed had been equipped with several different outfits, both casual and formal, in case of a noble arriving to visit. It was evident that Lady Josephine had spared no expense this time. He was the Inquisitor now, after all.

He rose from the bed and walked over to shut the ornate glass doors leading to the balcony. As fetching as the view of the Frostback Mountains was, he felt like he had had his fill of them for the day. Snow and rock was all that one could see in that place.

Sometimes he reminisced fondly of his own room back in his family home in Ostwick. The Trevelyan mansion was situated on the hill within the inner wall of the city, overlooking the Waking Sea. His own balcony had a lovely view of the mansion’s flower garden. That time of the year, the rare hundred-leafed embrium flowers would be in full bloom, and the apple trees would be heavy with fruit. He used to love nothing more than to walk the mansion grounds with Tilly on those quiet, lazy afternoons, admiring the flowers and the tall bushes, pruned by the gardeners to resemble all sorts of different animals and objects. Afterwards, they would sit underneath the cool shade of the gazebo, talking and laughing for hours, sipping on berry tea and nibbling on ginger biscuits.

Better times, those were. Comfortable. Safe. Tristan could not recall a time in his life since then that he had felt as safe. Or comfortable, for that matter.

He sighed heavily as he moved over to his desk. A stack of reports was waiting for him. Several reviews of the armoury and Skyhold’s defences in Cullen’s neat and stark handwriting, information from Leliana’s spies on possible locations of Corypheus’ army, as well as numerous invitations to nobles and letters of thanks in Josephine’s elegant penmanship. A new stick of crimson wax had been left next to his fountain pen, along with his personal signet. The Inquisitor’s signet.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan…” he mouthed silently as he signed the first paper. There were times he forgot his new title and signed with Herald of Andraste, or Lord Tristan of House Trevelyan -he did have so many fancy titles, after all-, and had to chuck the page away and start anew. Admittedly, his new title had a much better ring to it than his previous one.

Along with the new title, he still hadn’t gotten used to his new treatment. Several days after his appointment and he still found it difficult to walk around the castle grounds, amongst the people. The days of him wandering the streets of a city unnoticed were long gone, that he knew, but this was something else entirely. Back in Haven, folk would greet and nod at him when he passed, or whisper behind his back when he was out of earshot. Now, they all but fell on hands and knees upon catching sight of him, or asked him for his blessing with trembling voices.

Mother Giselle had been right about one thing, he ruefully admitted to himself. After the battle of Haven, he was no longer just a man with a strange mark on his hand and a refutable link to Andraste. He had become something of a demi-god.

It was odd. In fact, it was more than odd. He felt completely out of his depth. Like a mabari dressed in human clothes, that had somehow managed to fool everyone. Eventually, someone would find out that he was indeed a mabari, and he would be driven away, humiliated and disgraced. And this charade would just be another epic failure on the list of epic failures that was his life.

He stood abruptly, placing his pen down. Pondering on the past, and lamenting about his present situation would not help. He had to do something, anything, to take his mind away, otherwise he would soon drive himself mad. His gaze fell on a couple of thick and dusty tomes of Tevinter history he had asked from Hellisma in the library. Normally he would ask a servant to return them, but he was in desperate need of some fresh air.

Snuggling the books under his arm, he exited his quarters, taking a deep breath for good measure. He walked down the throne room hastily, nodding and forcing himself to smile at the visiting nobles and the Chantry sisters that greeted him, and made a left towards the stairs that led to the east tower. Hopping the steps two at a time, he reached the library door, and pushed it open gingerly, careful not to attract too much attention. The few scholars that were there were too engrossed in their own research to pay him any mind. With a sigh of relief, he followed the circular railing all the way to the other side, from where he had taken the books.

A warm scent of sandalwood and oakmoss greeted him as he turned the corner.

“Dorian.”

The dark-haired mage was placing a book about Dwarven artefacts on the shelf, when he turned abruptly, hand on his chest. “Inquisitor! You startled me,” he said, his soft laughter reverberating across the circular tower.

“Forgive me,” Tristan replied. “I only wanted to return some books.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed inquisitively over the book covers. “Let’s see, what do we have here? Tevinter history? How curious! If you’re interested, I can recommend a few editions that are much more engaging. Or,” he said, his lips curling in a half smile, “you can ask me. I am a walking, talking encyclopaedia on the matter.”

“I might take you up on that offer one day,” Tristan said as he placed the books on the shelf.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Dorian joked. He leaned back on the library, arms crossed in front of his chest and one ankle on top of the other. “Word around here is that you’ve become something of a hermit. I have to admit that I almost forgot what you looked like.”

“Did you now?” _He_ certainly hadn’t forgotten how Dorian looked. “I’ve been tending to my duties. Josephine and Leliana have been keeping me quite busy.”

“Ah, yes. Now that you’re the Inquisitor and all that. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never really pegged you for the dutiful type.”

“Neither did I,” Tristan replied thoughtfully. His glanced at his ring as he twisted it on his finger. “After the attack on Haven, there have been infinitely more things to do. Corypheus has made the Inquisition’s tasks a lot more complicated, as you can imagine.” He intended the last one as a mild jest, yet couldn’t keep a sombre tone from creeping in.

“What happened was a great shock to everyone involved,” Dorian said quietly. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.”

Tristan lifted his gaze to Dorian’s face. The affection and warmth in his sterling grey eyes startled him. He didn’t remember Dorian ever looking at him so fondly. For a long moment, they simply gazed at each other, neither of them daring to break the silence that stretched between them.

Tristan coughed softly to clear the lump that had lodged itself in his throat and looked away. He could only hope that his cheeks didn’t look as flushed as they felt. “It has been… challenging. To say the least.”

Dorian settled back on the library with a soft sigh. “Tell me about it,” he said, shaking his head. “One moment you’re trying to restore order in a world gone mad. That should be enough for anyone to handle. Then, out of nowhere, an archdemon appears and kicks you in the head! Not to mention that “Elder One” riding on its back as if it were a pony.”

Tristan couldn’t help the barking laugh that bubbled from his lips. “It took me by surprise as well. I couldn’t decide who was uglier, the archdemon or Corypheus? Gives me headaches still.”

“Oh, yes. That Corypheus fellow was downright frightful to look at. And you were so close to him, poor thing! I would have nightmares also,” Dorian said with a soft, throaty chuckle. “I have been thinking about him quite a lot, you know,” he continued, his smile soon fading to be replaced by a sombre expression. “I always assumed this “Elder One” behind the Venatori was a magister, but this… This is something else entirely. In Tevinter, they say the Chantry tales of magisters starting the blight are just that: tales. Yet here we are. One of those magisters. A darkspawn.”

“We only know what Corypheus claims to be.”

“True. He might be a convincing liar. Or delusional. Or insane. But how many delusional maniacs could have the knowledge of breaking open the Fade? If Tevinter and those magisters are behind the Blights, then that means that what I’ve been taught all my life has been a lie. It was us all along. Tevinter destroyed the world.”

Dorian’s voice was low. He was still leaning casually against the library, but there was nothing relaxed in his demeanour now. He seemed… crushed.

His tone made Tristan’s heart tighten in his chest. He took a step closer, lowering his voice as he held his gaze levelly. “You didn’t do anything, Dorian. Those men did. A thousand years ago.”

Dorian shook his head glumly. “True, except that one of them is up and walking around right now. Not to mention my idiot countrymen that would happily follow him.” He fixed his grey eyes on Tristan. There was steely determination there, but something else as well. An awareness of defeat hung over him, like a dark and heavy cloud. It seemed like it had been there for a very long time. “No one will thank me, whatever happens. No one will thank you either. You know that, yes?”

Tristan crossed his arms in front of his chest, sniffing in annoyance. He never cared about people’s approval, and he wasn’t going to start now. “I couldn’t care less if they thank me. That’s not why I do what I do.”

Dorian regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Then, a knowing smile spread on his lips. “I knew there was something clever about you.”

Well, there might be one person whose approval he cared about.

“Now,” Dorian exclaimed, standing straight, “I think we’ve talked enough about evil magisters and darkspawn for a day. How about you join me for some brandy, Inquisitor? What with all those nobles you’ve been meeting lately, I’d be shocked and disappointed if you hadn’t come across any decent gossip. Come,” he said with a wicked smile, extending his arm in front of him to let Tristan lead the way. “You must tell me all about it.”

A wide smile spread on Tristan’s face as he followed Dorian to the tavern. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t really mind that people were staring as he walked through Skyhold’s corridors. This time, at least, the mark on his hand shared the spotlight with something far more interesting; Dorian and his impossibly flashy outfit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	7. One Less Venatori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a chapter where Tristan is allergic to pretty much everything in the Hinterlands and sneezes all over the place and almost gets killed as a result. Because I have a cold and I wanted someone to else to suffer with me LOL

Those first few months after becoming the Inquisitor, Tristan felt like he was constantly running around like a headless chicken.

From destroying red lyrium mines, soaked to his bones with rain in the Storm Coast, to trudging miserably through the Fallow Mire up to his waist in swampy water, to then riding at dead speed to the Hissing Wastes and the Western Approach to chase Venatori, he was utterly swamped. If he had known what being the Inquisitor involved, he would have given Leliana and Cassandra the Inquisition sword right back and politely excused himself before running out of that place as fast as he could. And let the whole world boo him as he fled, for all he cared. Tristan Trevelyan, the former wastrel son of House Trevelyan, would not be snowed under a mountain of responsibilities. He would not! 

Thankfully, not everything was terrible about those missions. 

Dorian’s company was something of a lifesaver. With his banter and cordial disposition, he even made those dreaded expeditions to the Western Approach almost bearable. 

It was no secret to anyone that knew him that Tristan disliked that place with a passion. The endless sand dunes, the scorching heat in the day and blistering cold at night, the sandstorms that sometimes confined them to their shelters for hours, even days on end, the venomous beasts that prowled about, and worst of all, the darkspawn, remainders of the previous Blights and harbingers of the next… Needless to say, he despised it all.

Yet with Dorian around, he often forgot about it. He had the ability to make even the most mundane or unpleasant activities seem like marvellous fun. The man did have a temper, however. One of the targets and frequent causes of his irritability was Blackwall, whom he teased relentlessly. Blackwall himself never missed an opportunity to jab at the mage, so their trips often turned into contests of who would aggravate whom more efficiently, with Tristan in the middle as the referee. In the end, he resolved not to bring both of them along if he could avoid it, although there were missions where they were both indispensable.

One of those missions had brought them to the rolling, green plains of the Hinterlands. If the Western Approach was a dried up wasteland with nothing but sand and murderous hyenas for miles, the Hinterlands was a smelly dump full of dirt, mud and grass as far as the eye could see. Bees, flies and various other insects, whose names Tristan didn’t even remotely know, were buzzing around his ears in an endless tirade as he hobbled through the verdant countryside. The smell of goat turd that seemed to emanate from every direction did not make things any better. 

“Does the cold not bother any of you? Truly?” he heard Dorian complaining a few steps behind him.

Ah, yes. The cold. In between walking all day long and sneezing furiously because of his allergies to the local flora and fauna, Tristan had forgotten about the cold. At least there was someone else who shared his dislike for the wretched place.

“It’s not so bad,” Blackwall replied. He was well ahead of them all, walking in long strides, stopping here and there to appreciate the view or stoop and rub elfroot leaves between his palms. He had urged Tristan to do the same, as elfroot apparently let out a wonderful scent when rubbed, but Tristan remained thoroughly unconvinced.

“Of course it’s not so bad. It’s worse,” Dorian spat with distaste. “ _Kaffas!_ ” he exclaimed suddenly, and started scraping the sole of his boot on a rock.

“I’ve always liked Ferelden. It’s a straightforward sort of place,” Blackwall continued, seemingly unaware of Dorian’s grunts and swears. 

“I’d suppose it would seem that way to someone who’s been clubbed on the head too often.” Dorian was now inspecting his shoes, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 

Tristan bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. Solas, on the other hand, walked away to study the ruins of an old tower, putting some safe distance between him and the commotion.

Blackwall spun towards him, his blue eyes blazing menacingly underneath his bushy black eyebrows. “Careful I don’t club _you_ on the head, _mage_.” he growled. 

Dorian, satisfied that his boots were clean enough, stood tall, arms crossed in front of his chest. “I would expect no less from your kind, _warden_.” His black curls glinted in the sunlight when he tossed his head back defiantly.

A violent bout of sneezing forced them to end their staring contest and drew their attention on Tristan. He turned his back to them as he waited for his allergy to pass, and haggardly blew his nose on his handkerchief.

“I’m inclined to say the Inquisitor agrees with me, Blackwall. I could take that as a sort of applause, don’t you think?” Dorian sneered. Blackwall was about to reply when Tristan held his hand up to stop him.

“ _Enough_. Both of you.” His eyes were watering and his nose was itching, but he resisted the temptation to scratch it. “We have too many things to do today to waste time arguing over nonsense.”

“Apologies, Inquisitor,” Blackwall grumbled.

Dorian simply clicked his tongue disapprovingly as a response as he turned his back to the warrior.

Eyes burning terribly, Tristan stooped down and rummaged through his satchel for the elfroot and felandaris potion that Adan had said would help with his allergies. The grumpy herbalist had warned him not to take too much of it, as it might make him nauseous or woozy, but Tristan could not care less at this point. Anything was better than sneezing his way through the damned place. Tristan almost sighed in relief as he downed the entire contents of the small vial. It had a bitter taste that made him wince, but soon he could see and breathe normally. 

From his spot a little way away, Solas studied him carefully. He stepped closer to him without making so much as a sound, until he could speak to him in a whisper. “Is it wise to take another of these potions so soon after you took the last one, Inquisitor? Felandaris extract is not supposed to be ingested in such large amounts.”

Tristan waved his concerns away casually. “I’ll be fine, Solas. Don’t you worry.”

They all walked for a while in blessed silence. The sun was brushing against the mountain range along the west when they reached a tall and steep hill. 

“Where did you say that Grey Warden camp is, Blackwall?” Tristan asked.

Blackwall glanced about him, then nodded towards the summit of that hill. “That should be it, my lord.”

They hadn’t even climbed half of it, when Tristan’s ears pricked up at the sound of faint mumbling and chanting coming from its top.

“Venatori,” Dorian hissed, drawing close to Tristan. “I could recognise the spells they’re using anywhere.”

Tristan motioned them all to follow him silently along the hill’s narrow path. Hidden behind some bushes, they watched the Venatori and their guards prepare that evening’s dinner. Two Venatori mages, along with four guards, well-built and armed to the teeth. 

A nod to Blackwall was all it took for the strong warrior to charge at them like a bull. Sheathing himself in shadows, Tristan followed soon after, picking the guards apart with his sharp and poisoned daggers. It was not long before two of the guards fell to the ground, without so much as a scream.

Dorian and Solas, from their posts safely away from the thick of battle, hurled spell after spell at the Venatori mages while Blackwall occupied the two remaining guards. He charged at them again and again, but his sword never seemed to find its target. The men were strong and fierce fighters, though they should have been no match for the seasoned Warden. Looking about him, Tristan realized that one of the Venatori mages was raising invisible shields about the two warriors. 

Stealthily, Tristan moved behind the mage, careful not to step on any magical traps that he may have set on the ground. As if their minds were connected, Dorian immediately started attacking the mage mercilessly, drawing the man’s attention to him rather than behind him. With the Venatori busy deflecting Dorian’s spells, Tristan lunged, slashing at him with both daggers. The mage screamed in agony as his robes were seeped in blood. Tristan got ready to plunge his daggers into the mage again, when he suddenly felt a hazy mist clouding his vision. 

His stomach clenched in an icy grip. The allergy potion had taken full effect, it seemed. Damn him, he should have listened to Solas! 

He tried to take a step back and retreat from the Venatori, when a loud explosion flashed around him. Before he could realise what has happening, he was flung several feet away with the force of the blast. The air was knocked out of him when he crashed against the thick tree trunk that stopped his flight. His head ached horribly as he struggled to stand. He staggered, then fell back down. It was no use. Everything was spinning around him. 

A gauntleted fist wound itself in his hair and forced him up. Tristan groaned in pain as his already aching head jerked backwards violently under the might of that fist. He writhed, struggling to escape the strong grasp, when he felt the bite of cold, hard steel on his throat.

“Nobody move!” a gruff voice yelled next to his ear. “Lay down your arms, or I’ll cut him!”

Blackwall, Solas and Dorian blinked in horror. They stood motionless like statues amidst the dead bodies of the Venatori sprawled around them. Solas and Dorian glanced at each other, as if pondering whether to blast the guard where he stood. Blackwall’s thick eyebrows were knit in a vicious scowl. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. Even from that distance, Tristan could hear his teeth grinding in anger.

“Let him go,” the warrior growled, “and I might let you live.”

“I said, lay down your arms! And you mages don’t even think about casting.” He pressed the blade against Tristan’s skin.

Tristan’s heart beat wildly as a tiny drop of blood arced down his neck. He felt dizzy and weak. Keeping the contents of his stomach down took significant effort. 

“Do as he says, Blackwall,” Solas said, letting his staff drop to the ground. 

With a sharp exhale that did nothing to hide his fury, Blackwall threw his sword and shield in front of him. Dorian’s mouth compressed in a tight line, his knuckles going white as he gripped his staff tightly. Reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, he lay his weapon down as well.

“We did as you asked,” he hissed. “Now let the Inquisitor go.”

The man’s hold on Tristan did not weaken. He took a step back, forcing Tristan to follow. “Stay where you are,” he told them, drawing away from them.

Three pairs of hawk-like eyes followed them as they moved backwards. They were barely out of view of his companions when the man took a deep breath.

“Glory to the Elder One!” he yelled, and drew his blade.

The steel felt like ice as it slashed Tristan’s skin. Hot, burning pain blinded him, and his blood flowed down his chest in a crimson stream. His knees gave way, and he sunk down to the ground as the man let go of him.

He was floating, floating in space. Thick, white clouds drifted along a peaceful sky as his lungs convulsed, gasping helplessly for air. He could hear Dorian shouting a spell, and the guard dropping down to the ground limp and motionless, but it all seemed like it was miles away. 

His vision darkened, as if night had suddenly fallen. A quiet, peaceful night. He felt so tired. He only wanted to sleep.

Warm, steady hands wrapped themselves around his neck. 

“Stay with me, Inquisitor,” he heard Solas say, and a surge of healing magic flowed through him. Dorian’s grey eyes, peering anxiously over Solas’s shoulder, was the last thing he saw before everything faded.

The song of a distant night lark roused him from his fitful slumber. Tristan blinked to help his eyes adjust to the dim light of his tent. 

Dorian was sitting cross legged next to him, holding a candle over the heavy book that was open in his lap. The scent of his cologne, rather faint now, mingled with the smell of elfroot that lingered in the air. 

Tristan brought his hand up to his throat. A bandage had been wrapped around his neck, clean and dry. Lifting the blanket that had been draped over him, he saw that someone had taken his armour off and dressed him in a light cotton night shirt and breeches. There was no blood anywhere. The incident with the Venatori might as well have been a dream.

Noticing him moving, Dorian let the book close and set the candle down. “You’re awake,” he said, as if it were the last thing he expected to see. “Here, drink this.” Holding the back of Tristan’s head tenderly, as if it was an injured bird, he placed a cup with warm liquid on his mouth. It was dark and bitter, but Tristan drank it anyway. 

“It’s prophet’s laurel tea,” Dorian said, after letting Tristan’s head fall gently back on the pillow. “It will help replenish your strength.”

Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but Dorian stopped him. “Don’t strain yourself. You lost quite a bit of blood earlier. Solas was able to stop the bleeding until we were able to bring you back to the camp and treat you properly, but it was a close one. Had you lost any more blood, or had that guard’s blade gone any deeper…” He let his words trail away, looking bleakly down at his hands in his lap. It was only then that Tristan noticed how tired and haggard he looked. His eyes were red rimmed and his face looked sunken, as if he had stayed up all night. And he probably had, Tristan realised. 

The expression of concern on Tristan’s face must have been evident, because Dorian flashed him a wide, reassuring smile. “Nothing to concern yourself with. Our friend was able to fix you right up. Good as new, as they say down here in the south.” He opened the leather bound book that he had been reading before. “Since you can’t talk, I could read you a little of Enchanter Ellian’s _Compendium of Healing Magic_. A rather dull read, I’m afraid. It will probably put you right back to sleep.”

Tristan sat up slowly on his palette. Dorian was perusing the contents of the book, talking cheerily, more to himself than to Tristan, about Enchanter Ellian’s discoveries in the field of healing. It was as if his earlier bleakness and haggardness never were.

“Are you alright?”

It was a hoarse whisper, more croak than voice. The bandage was constraining his vocal chords, and Tristan could still feel the uncomfortable pinch of his injury when he spoke. But he had to ask.

Dorian gaped at him for a moment, eyes wide in surprise. Then, he let out a quiet and bitter laugh, shaking his head. “’Am I alright’, he asks. You were the one who brushed with death, yet the first words out of your mouth are ones of concern for someone else.” 

He let the book fall closed again and placed it gently by his side. “My health is alright. My pride? Not so much. I was never much good at healing, you know. No matter how much I studied, it was one of those things that always eluded me. I decided long ago that it was pointless, that I would never need it anyway, and occupied myself with other fields of study that I was actually good at. Yet today…” A long sigh escaped his lips, and he rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Today, all I could do was watch as Solas dragged you back from the precipice of death. I hadn’t felt so powerless in a very long time. I… I failed you.”

Tristan’s mouth tightened. He had seen Dorian face powerful beasts and demons in battle that would make any sane person’s knees buckle. He had watched him change the course of time while the world shattered around them, barely breaking a sweat. He had never seen him look so defeated as he did now. 

Gently, Tristan reached out, and placed his hand on Dorian’s forearm. “You couldn’t fail me if you tried, Dorian.” 

Their gazes met. The trembling light of the candle danced inside Dorian’s eyes, glimmering oddly in the half dark. A shaky smile spread across his lips. 

“The things you say,” he whispered. It could have been a play of the light, but Tristan thought he saw a light flush creeping up his cheeks. 

The scuffing of feet outside the tent made Dorian jolt. He pulled his hand back, out of Tristan’s reach as he glanced towards the entrance of the tent. “I should let you get some more rest,” he said affably, but his smile suddenly looked forced. “You’ve had a difficult day. I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.” 

Tristan watched him silently as he stooped and exited the tent, his book stuffed under his arm. For a long moment, he simply stared at the tent flap, stirring languidly in the wind. A distinct feeling of unease spread through him, like a slow building poison. He settled back on his pillow and shivered as he dragged the blanket over him. He wasn’t sure if it was from the cold, or from the feel of Dorian’s skin that still lingered on his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Join me if you'd like to scream about Dorian with me ^_^
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	8. Earning Favor

Tristan’s dagger tore through the top of the envelope with a satisfying hiss. It was a letter from Comtesse Lucienne, who had visited Skyhold about a month back. Her thanks for her stay, as well as her wishes for his swift recovery were written in elegant, flowery letters. Even the vellum she had written on gave off a heavy flowery scent. Those Orlesians certainly knew had to make an impression. 

He idly fingered the scar on his neck where that Venatori blade had cut him. Word of the Venatori almost killing him had quickly spread across Thedas, and the well-wishing letters were coming in a steady, incessant flow. Replying to them was tedious and time consuming, but he was sure Lady Josephine would have his hide if he didn’t reply in a timely, and most importantly respectable fashion. The Ambassador was polite and patient enough to rile a mule, but a stickler for formalities. It irked Tristan to no end.

He let out a heavy sigh as he took a scone from his plate and dropped a generous helping of the raspberry jam the cook had sent up to him for his breakfast. Admittedly, it was quite good. He licked his fingers and sifted through the letters while he chewed. Most were from Fereldan and Orlesian houses, a few from the Free Marches and some minor families in Denerim. He was indifferently scanning their sigils, when he suddenly froze.

It was a long and thin envelope, of the finest cream coloured vellum he had seen in a while. The sigil on it was one that he knew like the back of his hand. The stark and steady penmanship on the back of the paper sent icy tendrils down his back.

He tore the top of it open and snatched the letter out. His vision went blurry as he read the first few lines.

_My dear Tristan,_

_It has been far too long since we have spoken. I have written repeatedly to your Ambassador to congratulate you for your appointment as the leader of the Inquisition. It was with great regret that I learnt of the recent attack to your person. I…._

The letters were jumping in front of his eyes. He blinked furiously, trying to keep his head about him, but it was no use. Reading that letter was like hearing his mother’s voice inside his head, and that froze him to his very core.

He remembered all too well the last time he had heard her voice. 

He was in the grand ballroom of the Trevelyan mansion, more than two years back. It was crawling with people, all the esteemed members of the Chantry and the Ostwick nobility, dressed in their finest funeral outfits. They had come to pay their last respects and wax lyrical about the dearly departed, perfumed handkerchiefs at hand to wipe tears that were not there. It was an affliction of the worst kind, surely, for the daughter of a distinguished family to meet such a tragic ending.

“May the Maker take pity on her soul,” they would whisper, already eyeing the closest trays with smoked salmon and fine Antivan wine.

From his corner in the ballroom, Tristan downed glass after glass of wine, his resentment increasing along with his inebriation. 

Vultures. Scavengers. Pitiful excuses for human beings, the lot of them.

He had watched his mother converse with them, no doubt arranging new deals and alliances. No better time to get people to support you than at your time of need. At least she had the decency to look sombre and grim underneath her dark veil. It wouldn’t be proper, after all, to be smiling given the circumstances.

How her eyes had narrowed and her nostrils flared as she watched the empty wine glasses gather around him. She had glided to his side, all polite bows and fake smiles for those she passed by. “Our family has been disgraced enough,” she had hissed under her breath once certain she was out of earshot. “Is it too much to ask that you at least _try_ to look mournful and spare everyone your drunken antics for one day?”

It had been such a violent shock, and oh, so painfully predictable. He had done his best and failed to stifle a bitter laugh as his eyes fell to his hands, to the everite band that circled his finger. The only thing keeping him sane in a world of madness. “Forgive me, mother,” he had whispered, fixing his gaze on her dark blue eyes, that were so much like his own. So much like Tilly’s. “Forgive me for being the one that’s still alive.”

The memory settled on him, like a dark and heavy blanket. His breakfast scone now tasted like ash in his mouth. 

He tore the letter to pieces and flung it in the fire. He didn’t wait to see it being consumed by the flames before he stood up and walked to the tray where he kept his drinks. He pulled the cork out of a bottle of… something -he couldn’t really bring himself to care what it was, as long as it was strong- and poured some in a glass. It burned his insides when he downed it in one gulp, his heartbeat steadying slightly. Another one, and his fingers blissfully stopped trembling. 

That was better.

“Inquisitor?”

He jolted and spun around, spilling half his drink in the process. The agent that had walked in was looking at him with wide eyes. Tristan hadn’t even heard her knocking. “F-forgive me, my lord, I didn’t mean to intrude.” She blinked awkwardly for a moment and looked around. Then, as if remembering herself, she stood at attention and knuckled her forehead. “Sister Leliana has asked me to remind you of the war council meeting today, sir.”

“Right,” Tristan said breathlessly, smoothing a palm over his white shirt. He would have to change it now. “What time is the meeting?”

The woman gulped nervously and fixed her eyes on the wall behind Tristan. “They are already waiting for you at the war room, sir.”

Damn it.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Tell the sister I’ll be there presently.” 

“Yes, sir.”

She knuckled her forehead again and turned on her heel. Tristan muttered curses under his breath as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed in on his bed. The one he slipped into was thinner and stretched across his chest, but it would have to do. He doubted Leliana would wait another moment before sending another agent to drag him to the war room by his ear.

Oh, being the Inquisitor truly was a blessing.

Leliana sifted through the reports at the table in front of her. Her hawk-like eyes scanned the lines of dense writing in what seemed like seconds. Tristan, Cullen and Josephine stood silent as the small crease between Leliana’s brows deepened while she read. Finally, she set the piece of paper on the war table and glanced up at Tristan. “News of your near death has spread to the furthest reaches of Thedas. This is not good.”

“I know. I have been getting mountains of letters every day. It takes me ages to get through them all. Don’t these people have anything better to do?” Tristan said, his voice edging with annoyance. He tried not to think of his mother’s letter as he twisted the ring on his finger. 

“Yes, that can… be a problem,” Josephine said, shooting him a sidelong glance. “But, unfortunately, it’s not the only one. I have received several letters from our noble supporters as well. Letters of concern and wishes for a full recovery, mostly, but there are those that have expressed their concerns that the Venatori managed to get so close. Many believe that they are becoming more and more aggressive, and that the Inquisition is not cutting them down as… swiftly as we should. Widespread doubt about our forces does not add much to our claim of being the only power able to withstand the forces of Corypheus.”

Cullen shook his head, his jaw clenched tightly. “It hardly matters what some primped up nobles think. If they have doubts about our power, a walk through our battlements will prove them wrong. The important thing is that the Inquisitor is safe and sound. Anything else is irrelevant.”

Tristan could only barely bring himself to care about what the nobility said about him, but the fact that he had almost died under the hands of Venatori was indeed troubling. That he had only himself to blame for them getting so close did not make things any better. He let out a short huff. “I agree that the Venatori are very dangerous. We should double up our efforts in rooting them out. Lord Pavus has been very kind as to use former acquaintances of his to find information about their camps, but it’s not enough. We need to find as many as we can, as quickly as we can. And, Lady Josephine” he added decisively, “if there is any discontent about my actions, I would like you to forward those letters to me. I will be responding to them personally.” 

_We’ll see if they will be talking so openly after I’m done with them_ , he thought mirthfully, but kept that bit to himself.

Josephine’s brows furrowed for only a moment, before she gave him a polite smile. “I… would rather keep answering the letters myself, if you don’t mind. Surely you have more than enough to busy yourself with these days.”

Leliana glanced at Tristan, then at Josephine. Tristan thought he saw a small smile widening her lips, but he couldn’t be sure. He could never be sure with Leliana. “In any case, we should indeed renew our efforts in finding Corypheus’s agents. I’ll put my agents to it straight away.”

“So will I,” Cullen added. “We should increase the number of soldiers at our outposts, and have them thoroughly comb the areas they are covering. Should they find any evidence of Venatori activity, they will forward it to us immediately.”

“Good,” Tristan agreed. “Crushing a few more of their parties should be enough to restore the public’s faith in us. They seem to be occupied with little else these days, after all.”

“Indeed,” Josephine chimed in. “It can be a hindrance, but also an opportunity. I think we could use the public’s attention to us to our advantage.”

Tristan regarded her coolly, with reserved curiosity. “How so?”

“Since your appointment as leader of the Inquisition, it’s only natural that there is increased attention drawn to our affairs. There are many people that are expecting our response regarding the war between the mages and the templars. Shifting the attention from the attempt on your life to a public announcement about the war could serve us well.”

“The Mage-Templar war ended when the Inquisition allied itself with the free mages,” Tristan replied flatly. “What else is there for people to know?”

“There is still the question of what is to happen with the mages. As you surely know, there are those that believe that the mages should return to the Circles and that order should be restored as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.” Tristan crossed his arms in front of his chest and frowned at his advisors. “If I’m not mistaken, the three of you seemed to be of the same opinion not a very long time ago.” 

Leliana shot him an icy frown, while Cullen clenched his jaw. Josephine looked startled for only a heartbeat before giving him a polite smile. It never reached her eyes. “What we believe is of no consequence, Your Worship. I merely wanted to make you aware of the sentiment among the people and our allies. Whatever we, or rather, you decide,” she said, stressing every word, “it is crucial that we have the support of the nobility of Thedas. If I may speak bluntly, we require every alliance, and every bit of coin that we can get. The Inquisition is in dire need of both.”

Ah, yes. Gold. It always came down to that. He let out a soft sigh and allowed his hands to fall by his sides. “You’re right, as always, Lady Josephine. What do you suggest we do?”

“The decision on what is going to happen with the mages is up to you. However, I have taken the liberty of arranging a few meetings for you with esteemed members of the Orlesian nobility, to garner as much support from them as possible. You are to travel to Val Royeaux in a week with a small group of our finest negotiators to aid in the discussions.”

“I… see.” Tristan twisted the ring on his finger thoughtfully. “Do you think that the nobility will aid our cause? We are still a rebel organisation, as far as the Chantry is concerned.”

“There are those that are opposed to the Chantry, and condemn their involvement in the Mage-Templar war” Leliana said calmly. “I would suggest that you go to those meetings with an open mind, Inquisitor. Our prospective allies might pleasantly surprise you.”

Leaving the war room, Tristan’s head felt as heavy as a ripe watermelon. Lengthy meetings with his advisors usually had that effect on him. He wasn't sure what it was about them; the sheer multitude of tasks that always needed to be done and never seemed to lessen in the slightest no matter how many were tackled in each meeting, or the fact that decisions that could affect the lives of actual, real people fell squarely on his shoulders? He couldn’t rightly say.

He crossed the long corridor leading to the throne room lost in thoughts. The Venatori truly were a pain, but they didn’t annoy him half as much as the nobles did. And he would have to spend Maker knew how many hours conversing with them, all while being sober as a judge, as Lady Josephine had expressly demanded. Tristan was quite good a bartering, truth be told, but negotiating was an entirely different story. 

He was not going to enjoy this trip. Not one bit. 

Walking out in to the crowded throne room, Tristan saw Dorian coming out of the rotunda from the corner of his eye. Their gazes met momentarily. The smallest of smiles curled Dorian’s lips. A twitch, really. Tristan quickened his step to catch up with him, but he turned away and hurried towards the yard.

Tristan stopped dead in his tracks. That was odd. Since his accident in the Hinterlands, he had the distinct feeling that Dorian was somewhat… distant. As if he was avoiding him for some reason. Of course, that wouldn’t make any sense. Nothing had happened between them that should warrant such a reaction. Not as far as Tristan remembered, at the very least. 

He rummaged in his brain for something that he might have said to upset him during his drug induced haze, but could find nothing. There was that brief moment they had shared in the tent, though. The memories were now quite fuzzy, but he did remember reaching out to him. He also remembered Dorian pulling away from him as if he had been scorched. 

The thought brought an icy chill to his stomach. Swiftly, he brushed it away. He was probably overthinking things. Perhaps Dorian hadn’t even seen him approaching. Yes, he told himself, that must be it.

With a sigh, he pushed the door to the undercroft open. Harrit, the blacksmith, had sent him word that the new dagger he had commissioned was ready.

The din of hammers on the anvil echoed through the wide room. Harritt lifted his eyes from his work as soon as he heard the door open, and nodded sharply. “Inquisitor.” 

Tristan stood at the stair landing for a moment, glancing about the room. Every time he came to the wide workshop, there seemed to be more and more unusual and complicated contraptions filling every corner. 

Harritt gestured at one of his assistants, and the man walked swiftly towards a low table where an array of weapons were laid out. “Those gems you brought this time were very fine” the blacksmith said, turning to Tristan. “The dagger turned out excellent, if I may say so myself.”

“It’s good to know that those Venatori did something well, at least.”

“Yes, well, they seem to have done a lot of things right,” Harrit said, glancing at the scar on his neck.

Tristan bristled for a heartbeat, and felt his back straightening as if by instinct. There really wasn’t one person in Thedas that wasn’t talking about him and those Venatori. He resisted the urge to run his fingers over the scar on his neck.

The man returned holding the dagger. He presented it to Tristan as if it was a rare and holy treasure. He picked it up carefully, turning it around in his hand to inspect it. The gems embedded in the hilt glittered beautiful in the light. Drawing out the blade, he was satisfied to see that its sharpened edge gleamed cleanly. He placed the dagger back in its scabbard, giving Harrit a nod. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Harrit replied. “Nhudem here made it all by himself. He said he needed to repay you for something.”

Tristan glanced at the young man before him. He was of medium height and well built, with dark hair and a bushy black beard. A jagged scar ran from his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, and his smile was the widest Tristan had seen in a while.

“You,” Tristan breathed. “I remember you! You were in that burning hut in Haven!”

He nodded eagerly. “Yes, my lord. You saved my life then.”

Memories of Haven surged in Tristan’s mind. Memories of ash and dust, the sickly glow of red lyrium in the Venatori’s eyes, people screaming and begging for mercy as they bled out on the fresh snow. And Flissa...

For a moment, he could smell the smoke from the burning buildings and the thick scent of blood all around him. 

He swallowed thickly, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were and forcing a reserved smile on his face. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

“Thank you, Your Worship,” he said, a tad breathlessly. “I’ve made it my life’s purpose to serve you, my lord. To serve Andraste’s will.”

“You are doing quite well then, I think,” Tristan said. “This dagger is very well made.”

The man shook his head, as if Tristan had misunderstood. “I want to help protect you, sire,” he pressed. “To become a member of Skyhold’s guard.”

“He has been going on and on about you ever since Haven,” Harritt said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You might as well give him a chance, or he’ll give me no peace.”

“Right. I see,” Tristan said reluctantly. The man was looking up at him with glittering eyes. What harm could there be if he asked to become a guard? Cassandra and Cullen trained hundreds of recruits every day. One more would hardly make a difference. “Very well” he said finally. “Go to Commander Cullen and ask him to start training. Tell him I sent you.”

Nhudem’s smile was so wide, it seemed as if it would split his face in half. “Thank you, my lord. Andraste preserve you.” 

Tristan nodded sharply and turned to leave, when Nhudem took his hand in his and lowered his head. “I humbly ask for you blessing, my lord.”

Tristan stood still as if stunned. He glanced at Harritt, who shrugged indifferently. Maker, he never knew what to say in these situations. He ground his teeth as he wondered whose bright idea it had been to call him the Herald of Andraste. 

He looked at the man, who was still reverently holding his hand. "Uhmm..." he hesitated. “Bless you?”

Nhudem beamed at him, just as Harritt rolled his eyes. The blacksmith let out an impatient huff and turned around. “Excellent. Now that’s done, I’d like to get back to my work.”

Tristan did not exactly sprint out of the undercroft, but it was close. He went straight to his quarters, clutching his jewel encrusted dagger close to his chest. If anyone else asked for his blessing ever again, he might as well scream.

Lying on the spacious sofa in his quarters, Tristan tapped his finger on the glass in his hand. It was way past midnight, and the bottle of Orlesian red was almost finished. He let his head fall back as he stared at the ceiling.

Another night that he had no sleep.

He stifled a big yawn. The book on the Fereldan Circles of Magi he had found in his library was open on his lap, but he had long before stopped reading it. It was outdated anyway. If he had to brush up on his knowledge of the Circles, and how they worked, he would need something much more useful than that. The future of the mages of Thedas, at least of some of them, lay squarely on his shoulders after all. 

He tipped the last remaining contents of his drink over his lips and set the glass down on the low table. At that time, no one should be in the tower library, so no risk of anyone seeing him. He let the book close and set it aside before climbing down the stairs.

The throne room was blissfully empty, and so was the rotunda. Even Solas had apparently retired to his room for the night. The quiet rang oddly in that vast keep, but Tristan welcomed it for a change. He walked up to the library, satisfied that there would be nobody to trouble him as he perused the shelves.

The trembling light of a candle greeted him as soon as he turned the corner. Dorian was sitting at his desk, a multitude of papers and books strewn around him. He turned around as soon as he heard Tristan’s footsteps. A tentative smile spread on his lips, and he set his pen back in its fountain.

“Inquisitor,” he said, standing up. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

The cream coloured coat he was wearing was freshly pressed, and fitted him snugly around the shoulders and waist. The shiny silver buckles on it reflected the light as if they had only been polished that morning. And they probably had been. Dorian took great care in looking presentable at all times. After returning from the Hinterlands, Tristan had noticed that his clothes were just that little bit flashier than before. He had only been able to appreciate them from afar, most days, but it felt as if Dorian was trying to make even more of an impression than he usually did. 

“Fancy indeed,” Tristan replied. “I thought that everyone would be asleep at this time of night. How come you’re up so late?”

“Well, you’re up too, aren’t you?” he said, folding his arms casually in front of his chest. “I’ve been working on my research.”

“Oh.” Tristan glanced at the desk, the wood almost entirely obscured by the papers. Even had he known anything about magic, he doubted he would have been able to make out even a fifth of the shapes and equations on them. “I’ve distracted you. I should probably leave.”

Dorian hesitated only for a moment before waving his hand in a placating gesture. “Nonsense!” he said cheerily. “I was about to retire anyway. Was there something you needed?”

“Oh, nothing to concern yourself with. I was just looking for some books on the Circles of Magi and their history.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up. “Interested in joining, I take it?”

“What? No, it’s not that. It’s just… Well. I have some important decisions to make. I thought it would only be fair to educate myself. Just so I know precisely what I’m up against.”

“Ah. A scholar after my own heart.” 

Tristan gave his ring a small twist as he watched Dorian gather his papers. His back was almost entirely turned towards him, but he couldn’t help but notice a certain tenseness about his movements. 

“Is… everything alright, Dorian?” he heard himself asking.

The mage shot him a sidelong glance over his shoulder. “Of course, Inquisitor.” He straightened up, his work tucked safely under his arm. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, I just… I thought…” He swallowed nervously. Dorian’s gaze on him felt very heavy all of a sudden. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Nevermind.”

Dorian waited for a heartbeat. When Tristan didn’t say anything more, he took a step back. “Well, in that case, goodnight to you, Inquisitor.” He gave him a small smile before he turned to leave. It was polite, as it always was, but considerably reserved. Not an ounce of the warmth he had seen other times permeated its edges. It was… aloof. _Uneasy_. Tristan could use a lot of words to describe Dorian, but uneasy had never been one of them.

Maker, he was _definitely_ avoiding him.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out and caught Dorian’s arm. Dorian’s eyes darted about the empty rotunda, as if by instinct, before fixing themselves on Tristan. An unspoken question lingered in his gaze, but he seemed too startled to even voice it.

Tristan gulped. “I, uh…” His mind spun like mad, but he could not make anything come out of his mouth. Dorian’s brows drew closer and closer as the seconds drawled on impossibly slow, watching him with increasing curiosity. 

Damn him, he had to say something. Anything!

“Do you want to come to Val Royeaux with me?”

Perfect.

Tristan was certain all of his blood left his body to gather on his cheeks. Of all the things he could have said, this was possibly the last one he should have said. Dorian was evidently doing his best to stay out of his way, no doubt because of some ridiculous thing or other he had done and hadn’t even realised. And now there he was, asking him to go to Val Royeaux. Just the two of them. If the earth under his feet suddenly split in half and engulfed him, he should die a happy man.

Confusion passed over Dorian’s features, then his eyes widened as understanding slowly dawned on him. He twisted his body slightly so he was facing him. Tristan realised his fingers were still closed around Dorian’s arm, and he swiftly let go.

Dorian looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Are you asking me out on a trip, Inquisitor?”

Tristan gaped at him. “No! Well, yes. I mean…” Hoping he wasn’t blushing as furiously as he thought he was, he straightened his back and cleared his throat. “I will be occupied for most of the day, but I plan on doing some research during my free time. I would appreciate the company. And your insight. That is, if you want to come, it’s certainly not obligatory, I just-“

“I’d love to.”

Tristan blinked at Dorian’s sudden response. Something akin to satisfaction flashed in the mage’s eyes, and curled the edges of his lips. _He actually enjoys seeing me flustered_ , Tristan realised with some irritation. Even though he had been more than eager to get away from him a moment earlier, he couldn’t resist teasing him just a little, it seemed. 

A wide smile bloomed on his face before he could stop it. Tristan hadn’t looked forward to something so much in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come join me if you're so inclined :3
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	9. Gilded Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fairly long chapter, because there's way too much going down lol. Hope you enjoy!

“Did I hear correctly? Was that woman judging our outfits? _Our_ outfits?”

Tristan turned around, following Dorian’s gaze as he glared at a couple of passing noblewomen. They were wearing extravagant, voluminous gowns, covered almost from head to toe in silk, lace and fine organza, their faces obscured by their ornate masks. They were staring at them, and one of them was definitely giggling behind her fan.

Tristan strained his ears to catch their words, but they were soon engulfed by the crowd in the Val Royeaux busy market street.

Dorian shook his head and clicked his tongue in annoyance. He straightened his back and smoothed his palms over his black silk shirt, huffing indignantly. The dark red cloak he was wearing was made of lush velvet, the gilded golden buckles on its sides glimmering in the light of the waning sun. The golden rings on his fingers also glimmered as he moved. In fact, the entirety of him was glimmering. Varric’s nickname for him was entirely justified, Tristan thought with some amusement.

“I’ve heard a lot about assassination plots in Orlais, but the only crime here was that lady’s ensemble,” Dorian said, wrinkling his nose. “Prairie green silk paired with pink lace? Tsk, tsk. I would introduce her to my tailor if I didn't think she was too far gone.”

Tristan nodded absently. “Yes, that was definitely last year’s fashion. I would hide in my basement in eternal shame if I were her.”

Dorian spun around to look at him, his grey eyes wide and sparkling. “This is _your_ fault! I bet most of them are gawking at us because they recognise you as the Inquisitor.”

Tristan shrugged, trying to hide his smirk at Dorian’s irritation. “What can I say? My reputation precedes me.”

“Well,” Dorian said. “That can be fixed.”

Tristan glanced at him questioningly, but before he could say anything, Dorian had threaded his arm through his and was dragging him to a nearby vendor’s stall.

“Welcome, _messieurs_!” the vendor exclaimed, bowing so deeply that the feathers on his hat almost touched the ground. The buttons on his silk doublet sparkled as he straightened up. “Hats and masks of the finest quality for fashionable gentlemen. Browse at your leisure.” He bowed again and gestured towards his wares.

“What do you think of this one?” Dorian was holding a golden mask with elegant carvings of flowers and leaves along the sides. Their arms were still entangled, Dorian’s elbow lightly grazing his side. Tristan’s mouth had gone dangerously dry.

Swallowing thickly, Tristan tried his best to look absorbed in examining the mask. “It’s… it’s quite elegant. Though I don’t think it would go well with my complexion.”

Dorian turned to look at him, tilting his head to the side. “Hmm, yes… Gold is definitely not your colour. You’d look dashing in silver though, I wager,” he said, and picked up a relatively simple silver mask from the stall. He placed it lightly over Tristan’s eyes. “Perfect,” he mused, smiling. His fingers on either side of Tristan’s face lingered only for a moment before he took the mask off and handed it to the vendor. “We’ll take this. And this,” he announced, indicating an extravagantly gilded golden mask. Tristan raised an eyebrow at his selection, but Dorian only smirked. “When in doubt, _dazzle_.”

Tristan nodded. That… actually made a lot of sense, coming from Dorian.

When Tristan tried to reach for his purse, Dorian stopped him, placing his palm on Tristan’s hand. “Please. Allow me. It’s the least I can do to thank you for inviting me here.”

The feel of Dorian’s fingers on the back of his hand sent a shiver through. His throat suddenly felt as if it were made of sand. “You don’t owe me anything, Dorian.”

“Oh, but I insist.” He pulled his hand back, reaching in his coat pocket for his purse.

The vendor gave them a wide, oily smile as he accepted Dorian’s coin and handed them the masks. Donning the mask on was a challenge in and of itself, with its flimsy ribbon digging at the back of his head, but in the end Tristan managed to fix it in place. He gazed at his reflection at the window of a nearby store and frowned. He looked utterly ridiculous.

Dorian, on the other hand, was having a much easier time with his mask. It fit perfectly on his face, and although quite extravagant, worked harmoniously with the rest of his outfit. The golden glint of the mask made the golden hue of his complexion stand out, and emphasized the golden flecks in his silver eyes. Not a few passers-by turned to stare at him. The golden statues in the square and all the shiny artefacts on the vendors’ stalls paled in comparison.

“Well? How do I look?” Dorian said, turning towards him and placing his hand under his chin in a fancy pose.

Tristan startled slightly as if electrified. He hadn’t realised he had been staring. “It’s, uh… it’s fine,” he mumbled, and turned away.

“What, just fine?” he heard Dorian say. “I knew I should have chosen that other one with the rainbow feathers.”

Tristan swallowed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s… you look… very handsome. Impressive, actually.”

Dorian stopped for a moment, his eyes fixing themselves on Tristan’s, his smile faltering momentarily. Then, he tossed his head back and laughed, and threaded his arm through Tristan’s again. “Maker, you always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Tristan only managed to smile awkwardly as he was promptly dragged to a nearby book stall.

“A rare edition of _Compendium of Arcane Transmutations_ by a Magister Domitius,” Dorian gasped, his eyes glittering. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Tristan bought it for him despite his protests, along with several old and dusty history books, and gave the vendor some extra coin to deliver them at the inn they were staying. The vendor gave them a wide, knowing smile, as if they were two lovebirds on an escapade away from home.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Dorian whispered when they were at a safe distance from the vendor.

“Oh, but I did,” Tristan replied. “And I wanted to. After all, you have become Skyhold’s librarian of sorts.”

“Who would have thought that Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus, would be reduced to so mundane an occupation! If only my father could see me now.” He glanced at the book, a hand caressing its worn, leather back with utmost care. “You see, it was out of necessity that I assumed the position. During the first week of our arrival at Skyhold, I saw a worker in the yard tearing a page out of Aldius’s _Treatises on Chronomancy_ to wrap a cudgel. A cudgel! That was a crime against humanity if I ever saw one,” he shuddered. “I’ve been keeping an eye on these books ever since.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Tristan said, and he meant it. They walked on, appraising some very intricate Antivan fans laid out on another stall. “I talked to Helisma a few days ago when I dropped off some research materials she asked of me. She said you have an effective, if somewhat idiosyncratic, way of storing the books.”

“Let me guess: did she say ‘idiotic’ rather than ‘idiosyncratic’? That would sound more like her.” Dorian sniffed audibly. “She has some very strong opinions for a Tranquil, let me tell you.”

Their steps soon took them away from the busy market and to the promenade along the waterfront. They walked for a while in silence, watching the seagulls flying over the calm waters. The large statues looked as if floating on the clear waters, their polished marble surface reflecting the sun.

The relative silence of the promenade compared to the hustle and bustle of the market brought a pensive lull to their conversation. Tristan’s mind drifted against his will to the meetings he had had earlier that day. Lady Josephine had been right. There was indeed a lot of talk about the mages of the Inquisition, and what was to happen with them. He glanced at Dorian, who was indifferently watching a swarm of seagulls fighting over a scrap of bread.

“There is something I’ve been thinking about for some time,” Tristan said. “I was hoping I could get some advice from you.”

Dorian blinked at him. “The Inquisitor wants my advice? I must say, you never fail to surprise me,” he said with a small, teasing smile. “How can I help?”

“I’ve been… thinking about the mages of the Inquisition. It’s been giving me headaches, actually.” Tristan took a deep breath, tapping his fingers on the carved marble railing of the promenade. “When I offered them a full alliance, I knew I would receive backlash for my decision, and I was ready for it. I knew that I wanted the mages to be free from Circles, Templars and the Chantry, and I would support them in that, no matter the cost. But there are times that I feel like my dream of a world where mages are free is just that. A dream.” He paused to take another breath and gazed at the sea. “Perhaps the world isn’t ready to accept mages being independent from Chantry control, leading normal lives, having the same rights as everybody else. Yet… if no one stands up for them, how can they ever hope to be accepted?”

He stole a glance at Dorian, who was listening to him attentively. Tristan gave the ring on his finger a small twist, just to arrange his thoughts.

“When I was given the title of Inquisitor, I realised that I have the power to change things. _Really_ change things. Still, it has to be done right. There’s so many people expecting the Inquisition to fail. I want to prove them wrong.”

“Ah, yes. So many well-wishers in the world,” Dorian mused, nodding solemnly. “What are you planning to do?”

Tristan paused for a heartbeat before fixing his gaze on Dorian. “How are mages trained in Tevinter?”

Dorian looked at him incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ll be asking a Tevinter to give you advice on how to handle mages? It’s starting to sound as if you don’t want to keep that pretty head about your shoulders after all.”

Tristan gaped at him for a moment. Did he just call him… pretty? He shook his head only slightly. It must have been a figure of speech. “Trust me, Dorian, there’s nothing I want more. I know how it might appear to some. But I don’t care. I only want what’s best for the mages. Tevinter has been around for centuries, and mages there have never been as oppressed as they are here. Clearly your countrymen are doing something right.”

“Yes, they are. But they are also doing many things wrong. My homeland should be a cautionary tale, not a source of inspiration” he said, letting out a sigh. “In any case, to answer your question, there is no comparison between how magic is viewed in Tevinter and here in the South. The Chantry has instilled fear and distrust of magic in people’s minds. In Tevinter, on the other hand, magic is considered a gift, not a curse. Mages are allowed to use their power and experiment as they wish, within reason of course.”

“Are there no abominations, then?”

“Oh, there are some. But there isn’t such a big fear of demons in Tevinter. Abominations are simply thought of as an occasional consequence of magic, not a constant threat. If a mage fails during their harrowing, there are other mages present to subdue them. It’s quite rare, mind you. Mages are taught from a very young age to trust and hone their abilities, not be afraid of them.”

Tristan twisted the ring on his finger thoughtfully. “What about the rite of Tranquillity? Is it ever performed in Tevinter?”

“Yes, on occasion. “Abuse of magic” has so many convenient applications. It is seen as the ultimate punishment for a mage. Worse than death.”

“From what I know of it, it sounds absolutely horrendous. To sever someone from the Fade, from their own emotions… I can’t imagine what that must be like for a mage.”

“Nor can I,” Dorian said solemnly. “Most Tranquils I’ve met insist that their lives are better that way. But anything would look fine to someone who can’t tell the difference between choosing something for themselves and having it chosen for them. As far as I’m concerned, it’s preferable for one to live a terrible life on their own terms, rather than a comfortable one on someone else’s.”

They walked along the waterfront for a long while, quietly talking about Tevinter, mages and the Chantry. Dorian’s views on magic and the training of mages were somewhat unorthodox, but fascinating all the same. Tristan was sure that if a Chantric overheard their conversation, they would run away screaming in terror. The thought cheered him up quite a bit.

The sun dipped slowly below the horizon as they conversed, painting the sky pink and golden. Reaching a quiet spot of the promenade, Tristan paused for a moment to take in the view around him. The waves crashing softly on the rocks below the wooden ledge were a smooth, delicate murmur. He leaned against the railing and breathed deeply. He took his mask off and let the breeze caress his face.

“Ready to assume the role of Inquisitor again, I take it?” he heard Dorian’s voice beside him. His hand brushed lightly against Tristan’s back as he drew near, and leaned with his elbow on the railing.

Tristan smiled tiredly, looking at the mask in his hand. “No, not really. I don’t think I’ll ever be.” He fixed his gaze on Dorian’s eyes that were studying him behind his gilded mask. “It was good to spend some time away from it all, Dorian. With you.”

“Likewise,” Dorian replied, a soft smile on his lips.

Tristan felt the world growing silent and his breath shallow as they stood there, gazing at each other. They were in the capital of Orlais, surrounded by gossiping nobles, yet all he could see was that man in front of him, the breeze flowing through his dark, glossy curls, his lips slightly parted, his expression unbearably hard to read behind that mask that obscured his features. A memory of a smile haunted Dorian’s lips as Tristan moved closer, his palm brushing against Dorian’s elbow, and-

“Inquisitor! Is that you?”

The shrill voice behind him made him jolt. He took a reluctant step away from Dorian, and turned to face the source of the noise.

The noblewoman looking at him with sparkling eyes and a wide smile was painfully familiar. He had been forced by Lady Josephine to dine with her on more than one occasion. “Comtesse Lucienne” he said as courteously as possible, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“I knew I saw you at the market earlier! What brings you here to Val Royeaux? And who is your friend?” she replied, her eyes sliding off Tristan to fix themselves on Dorian.

“This is Dorian Pavus of Minrathous. An esteemed member of the Inquisition. ”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, madame,” Dorian replied, bowing his head.

“ _Enchante, messieur_.”The Comtesse smiled cordially, fanning herself. She kept her eyes on Dorian only for a moment before she turned her full attention back to Tristan, as Dorian had simply ceased to exist. “How fares the Inquisition, _mon cher_? Oh, you must tell me all about it. I am hosting a small gathering at my _manoir_ later. I’d be devastated if you didn’t come. ”

Tristan cleared his throat, daring a quick glance at Dorian before he spoke. “I’m afraid I must decline, Comtesse. I have… important business to attend to. For the Inquisition.”

“Oh, but surely your business can wait? Duchess Auclair, Empress Celene’s cousin-in-law will be there as well, and she has been dying to meet you. She is one of the Empress’ ladies in waiting’s close friends, as you know. Your… _friend_ is welcome to join us” she added, somewhat curtly.

Tristan turned to glance at Dorian, then back at the Comtesse, who had taken hold of his hand and was smiling expectantly at him. “Oh… I, uhm… maybe some-“

“Of course he’ll come, Comtesse. Won’t you, Inquisitor?” Dorian broke in, smiling graciously. “That Inquisition business can wait for a while.”

Whatever objection Tristan was going to bring up, it was robbed from him by Dorian’s intervention. The Comtesse let out an exclamation of joy, clapping her hands. “Oh, that’s marvellous, Inquisitor! Now, come, my dear, my carriage is waiting.”

Tristan let the Comtesse drag him away, defeated. He turned to glance at Dorian, who had already started walking away, his head held not quite as high as he remembered.

The air in the Comtesse’s ridiculously extravagant tea room felt hot and stifling. Tristan sipped on his drink, discreetly loosening the collar of his shirt. At least his drink wasn’t too bad. Berry tea, no doubt spiked with some fruity brandy. Warm, but refreshing. It almost made him forget that he probably needed something much, much stronger to get through the dreadful event.

The Comtesse’s guests talked merrily around him, exchanging flowery compliments and fake smiles, but Tristan was only half listening to them as he stared out of the tall, ornate arched windows. The view of the manoir’s gardens and Val Royeaux’s tall white marble spires was really quite charming. Night was descending slowly, and the first lights were making their appearance in the far away buildings.

He let his eyes roam over the extravagantly gilded ceiling and the outrageous tapestries on the wall. He could never understand what it was about them that people found appealing enough to hang where everyone could see. He studied the one closest to him with uncanny focus -oh, look, a very distressed looking lady carrying a giant silver goblet and riding on the back of a unicorn, and oh, what’s that, a lion playing the flute?- in hopes of quelling his boredom and frustration. The entire affair reminded him of those soirees his Mother used to host in the Trevelyan mansion in Ostwick. He distinctly remembered being bored out of his mind then, too.

He wondered what Dorian was doing. Perhaps he had continued his stroll along the promenade. Or he had decided to return to the inn they were staying, to curl up in front of the hearth with one of the books they had bought that day. Or perhaps he had climbed up to the tallest balcony in Val Royeaux and flung himself straight into the waters of the Waking Sea, to save himself the second-hand embarrassment of seeing Tristan again.

He cringed at the thought that he had tried to kiss him in full view of every passer-by in Val Royeaux. Blight, perhaps his mother had been right all along. He really was a fool.

“…isn’t that right, Inquisitor?”

The Comtesse’s shrill voice stirred him out of his thoughts. From what he had vaguely heard, they had been talking about the Civil War between Empress Celene and Duke Gaspard. She was no doubt asking his opinion on it. Problem was, he didn’t really have one. Vagueness was always the best strategy when it came to situations like these. “Empress Celene’s forces are formidable, to be sure. But Duke Gaspard also commands great numbers. The Empress certainly needs to take his tactics seriously if she is to win the war.”

Several heads nodded, flowers and wings on elaborate hats and hairstyles fluttering slightly. A man, whose name Tristan had already forgotten, placed his cup on its saucer and cleared his throat.

“And how is the Empress to do that, if the Duke continually rejects any invitations for negotiations? Patience has its limits.”

“One needs to possess a great deal of patience if they are to achieve anything in this world,” Tristan replied, suppressing a bored sigh. “Whether one is an Emperor or a farmer, nothing can happen simply by stomping their foot and expecting everyone to do as they say.”

A few cold glares this time, but some nods as well. The Comtesse gave him a warm smile. “Our Inquisitor is an expert in these matters, my dear. Our Empress would do well to listen to whatever he has to say. He is the leading force of resistance against that dreadful Tevinter cult, after all.”

“Certainly,” the man said, crossing one leg over the either and shooting Tristan an amused glance. “I hear they are a tougher enemy that most thought. Almost _invincible_ , one would say.”

Tristan shifted in his seat. He didn’t like where the man was taking the conversation. “They command great numbers, that is true, and their influence is spreading, but I would hardly call them invincible. The Inquisition is doing everything they can to suppress them.”

“Not quite as much as is required, it seems,” the man said. His ridiculous hat looked like two hollow tubes glued together and plastered on his ridiculously small head. His mousy black eyes stared at him from beneath his golden mask. “We keep hearing about their plots, even here. Rumours of several houses secretly allying with them is spreading.”

Comtesse Lucienne nodded, closing her fan on her palm. “But of course! How can we forget that scandal with the Duke de Besson? He was found harbouring two Venatori mages in his mansion. Apparently, they’d offered to use blood magic to help him deal with some… private problems he was having, in exchange for his support.”

From the Comtesse’s tone and her small, mocking smile, Tristan could only gather that the Duke’s problems had been very _private_ indeed. Several ladies spread their fans to hide their sneers.

“They had even started performing some of their vile spells by the time his treason was uncovered,” the Comtesse continued.

Ridiculous-Tube-Hat shook his head with disgust. “Nothing that comes out Tevinter is ever good. “

Tristan resisted the urge to grind his teeth. The man was obviously a knucklehead. “Tevinter and the Venatori are hardly one and the same. In fact, Archon Radonis has already refuted any and all connection with them. They are an entirely independent and extremist cult, led by a creature that holds no more allegiance to present day Tevinter than you or I do.”

“Oh, that theory is a bit too convenient, isn’t it? Tevinter has been planning on how to exert influence over the entire world for centuries, and then someone appears that claims to want to restore their old power and all of a sudden they have no connection with them? Whatever it is they say, they cannot be trusted.”

“Oh, come, my dear Bellard, don’t be so gruff. You know that not everyone holds the same opinions about Tevinter as yourself,” Comtesse Lucienne said, languidly fanning herself. “After all, it seems that our Inquisitor has… personal ties to the place.”

Tristan shot the woman a sidelong frown. “What is that supposed to mean, Comtesse?”

“Well, either my eyes were deceiving me, or I _did_ see you canoodling with an attractive Tevinter fellow earlier. Now, what was his name…”

“Dorian Pavus,” Tristan replied through tight lips, his voice verging on a growl.

“Ah, yes. As I was saying, you two looked very close. He is rather good looking. For a _Tevinter_ , at least," she said, emphasizing the word in such a way that made Tristan's hands almost ball into fists at his side. "Quite an interesting choice for a companion. Oh, look, he’s blushing!” she exclaimed, hiding her broad smile behind her lace fan as laughter erupted in the room.

Not clenching his jaw while the Comtesse’s friends clucked like hens around him proved to be a challenge. He took a deep breath, remembering Lady Josephine’s instructions. Calm. Poise. Rationality. And most importantly, no snapping at prospective allies.

Oh, fuck it.

“It sounds like you were far more taken with Lord Pavus than I was, Comtesse,” he said, forcing a sickly sweet smile on his face. “He is indeed a very interesting companion. Perhaps I should introduce you to him next time you visit Skyhold. At your age, you should take advantage of every opportunity to have some fun.”

He loudly slurped on his tea while icy glares bore straight into him from every corner of the room. He pretended not to notice as he set his cup on its saucer with a clink and smacked his lips. “Now, what _were_ we talking about? Ah, yes. Tevinter. I hear their wines are exquisite this time of year. I should have a bottle of Perivantium Red sent to you when I go back to Skyhold. I assure you that after you try that, you’ll never go back to the wish-wash you call wine around here.”

It didn’t take long after that for a servant to very kindly show him to the door, with a hastily given assurance by the Comtesse to visit him in Skyhold. Something told Tristan she wouldn’t be coming any time soon.

It was a relief when Tristan finally got in the carriage to take him back to Val Royeaux. He wanted nothing more than to get back to the inn and sink under the covers. It had been an excruciatingly long day.

The streets of the capital were unusually crowded for that time in the night. It reminded him a little of Ostwick’s main district, with all the pubs and the dance houses, not to mention the smoke houses. Once, he would have loved nothing more than to stay out all night, pub hopping until the early hours of the morning. It didn’t really matter with whom, as long they could play Wicked Grace and keep up with his drinking. Now, if they offered him eternal bliss in exchange for one of those nights, he would seriously consider whether to accept the bargain.

The rooms Lady Josephine had booked for him, Dorian and the handful of emissaries she had sent with him were at an inn in the more high end part of town. Tristan paid the carriage driver and got out, the heels of his tall formal boots clicking on the hard pavement. Faint music and laughter drifted from the inside of the inn. It was quite late, so Dorian must already have retired to his room. He pushed the door of the inn, and his mouth almost fell open.

The musicians were playing a slow and solemn love song, one Tristan knew well as an Orlesian favourite. A throng of people were standing in a wide circle with their cups in the air, singing loudly in discordant voices. And at the center of them all, propped up on a table, there was Dorian, singing the loudest of them all.

_From where comes this,_  
_Fair one, I beg of you,_  
_That you no longer do relate to me?_  
_Ever shall I be filled with sadness_  
_Until you should send me but a sign._  
_I believe you no longer want a friend,_  
_Or someone has spoken ill of me to you,_  
_Or your heart has now taken up a new love._

His velvet voice carried cleanly through the room. It was smooth, melodic, and utterly captivating. But most of all, it filled Tristan with a vague sadness. He had heard the song before, many times, but coming from Dorian it sounded impossibly wistful and nostalgic. The rest of the people in the room were gazing at him with wide eyes, and soon, one by one their voices died down until there was only Dorian’s. For a long moment, Tristan just stood by the door, enthralled.

_If you do quit the pretty train of love,_  
_You do but make your beauty a prisoner._  
_If you’ve forgotten me due to someone else,_  
_May the Maker then grant to you your dearest wish;_  
_But if you think badly of me at all_  
_I want only that you be as sweet to me,_  
_Or even more, as you are being stubborn._

The song drew to a perfect close. After it was over, laughter and cheers erupted from the crowd, and they all gathered around Dorian to clink their glasses with his.

He laughed, a deep, sonorous laugh, as he clinked and smiled at each and every one of them. For an instant, he looked far more the beloved hero than Tristan could ever hope to be. It was ironic, really, that Tristan held such a lofty title, while at the same time Dorian could captivate a crowd with something so natural and effortless as the sound of his voice.

Dorian’s eyes fixed themselves on him through the sea of people around him. They glittered in the light of the candles and oil lamps with an unusual intensity. Stabilising himself on a man’s shoulder, he hopped off the table and made his way through the crowd to him. He stopped before him, swaying lightly, his grey eyes glinting with excitement.

“You’re back,” he said. His voice had a slurred, liquid like quality to it. His drink was half finished in his hand. Tristan highly doubted that it was the first, second, or even third of that night. “I was wondering when you would come.”

“Of course I’m back,” Tristan replied with a small smile. “I left the Comtesse’s party early.”

A smile widened Dorian’s lips. Without a word, his fingers closed around Tristan’s wrist and pulled him towards his table.

“He’s here,” he announced to the people there. “The man of the hour.”

Several people turned to look. Eyes blinked and peered at him from flushed faces.

“You’re the Inquisitor?” a tall blonde man said. His big brown eyes took a moment to focus. “The Herald of Andraste?”

“The one and only,” Dorian said, beaming proudly at Tristan. “This is Eluard. He owns the book stall we went to earlier today.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Tristan said, although he wasn’t, really. Not with the way the man gawked at him.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” the man named Eluard said, fixing his small, round hat about his head. “but I thought you would be taller. Scarier. You’re… normal. Not at all scary. Quite the opposite, I would say.”

The thinly veiled sarcasm in the man’s voice brought a frown on Tristan’s face, but he almost forgot about what the man said when Dorian suddenly threw his arm around Tristan’s shoulders.

Tristan glanced at him, startled. Dorian leaned on him, the warmth of his body seeping through Tristan's clothes. He was so close that Tristan could make out the distinct undertones of his cologne, mixed with the alcohol he was drinking and the smell of… him.

Their proximity sent shivers down his spine. He swallowed thickly as Dorian laughed aloud and gave the Orlesian a wide smile. “You’d be surprised how strong he is. I’ve seen him fight. None of you would have a chance against him.”

The tension blew over as swiftly as it had come about. “In that case,” Eluard said with a laugh, “come, sit. Drink with us.”

Tristan took a seat at the table, and Dorian sat next to him. The Orlesian poured some drink into a glass a handed it to him. He took a sip from it. It was brandy, and very strong, but it was exquisite.

“That’s really nice,” he said. “I haven’t had brandy like that in a while.”

“It’s Fereldan. I didn’t even know they made good brandy down there. He’s the one that chose it,” the Orlesian said, nodding towards Dorian. He gave Tristan a wide, drunken smile and raised his glass. “It seems your boyfriend here knows his liquor.”

Tristan gaped at him. His face suddenly felt as if it were on fire. “He’s not my boyfriend!” he blurted out. “He’s… he’s-“

“Yes, what am I?” Dorian asked, perching his chin on Tristan’s shoulder and batting his eyelashes at him.

His word, the man was plastered.

Tristan opened his mouth, then closed it again. The seconds seemed to stretch endlessly, and, judging by the heat creeping up his cheeks, he must have looked like a pomegranate. To his eternal relief and gratitude, one of Eluard’s friends started telling a particularly vulgar joke about Fereldans and goats, and Tristan was entirely forgotten.

Dorian’s arm was still draped over his shoulders though. His heart fluttered like a leaf in the wind inside his chest.

“People around here talk a lot about you, you know,” he said softly. His breath tickled Tristan’s ear and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“I’m not surprised. I hope they’re not saying anything too harsh, at least,” Tristan replied, trying to keep his voice level despite a shiver that passed through him. He sipped on his drink and shot Dorian a sidelong glance.

Dorian smiled faintly. He was watching him intently, as if afraid to miss a single word. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper as he leaned closer. “Would it bother you if they did?”

“I…” Tristan swallowed thickly. He looked at the people around the room. They were drinking and talking and laughing, but somehow their gazes still managed to fall on them, as if by accident. Tristan clenched his jaw. “No. Not really. You know what they say. Sticks and stones can break my bones…”

“But words can never hurt me.” A sad smile blossomed on his face. “I wish that were true.”

He glanced at his half empty drink on the table. Sliding his arm off of Tristan’s shoulders, he picked it up and tipped the brandy over his lips. There was suddenly a sombreness to him, steady and deep. It felt like it had always been there, just lurking below the surface.

It didn’t last long, though. When the Orlesian ordered another round of drinks, his face lit up and he readily joined in the jests and the commotion. Tristan sipped slowly on his brandy, discreetly frowning as Dorian downed a shot of… something the Orlesian gave him. If anyone was familiar with the swaying, and the unfocused eyes, and the flushed cheeks that come about when someone's tipsy, then that was him. And Dorian was way beyond that point.

“I think it’s time to go to bed,” he told him quietly.

Dorian looked at him, blinking. “But the night is still young! We still have so much to say! And to… well, drink. Don’t you want to stay a little bit longer?”

Tristan had become so accustomed to drinking alone in his quarters, that being in this crowded bar room felt odd. Like a fish out of water. And Dorian had certainly had more than enough for one night. A little more, and he would be falling flat on his face.

“It’s actually quite late. And we have an early start tomorrow, remember?”

“Let the man have his fun!” Eluard exclaimed from across the table. “Or are you too eager to get him alone? In that case, have a pleasant night,” he said, and shot them the most innuendo-heavy look Tristan had ever seen.

His face felt impossibly hot again. He tried not to scowl too much as he stood up. “Gentlemen,” he said formally, “I was pleased to meet you. Please accept my wishes for a good night.” He glanced at Dorian who was looking up at him, gaping. “Come, Dorian, let’s go.”

Dorian snapped his mouth shut and straightened up. “I’ll have one more drink, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. You’ve had more than enough.”

“There’s a mother hen for you,” the Orlesian said with a sly smile.

Tristan scowled and prepared to tell him off, but Dorian was quicker. He flicked his finger on the man's forehead and gave him a wide, condescending smile, as if Eluard was but five years old. “Now, what did I say about talking to the Inquisitor that way?”

The other men around the table erupted in raucous laughter. Eluard looked stunned for a moment, but it didn’t last long. He leaned slightly forward, his mouth twisted in a scowl. Tristan caught Dorian’s arm and pulled him away. “Alright, that’s enough. Time for us to go before anyone gets hurt.”

This time, Dorian followed him. He took a step after him, then turned back, picked up his drink and downed it in one go. He placed his glass on the table with a thud and twirled his fingers at the men. “Too doo loo, boys.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and pulled him towards the stairs to the rooms. Climbing up the steps proved to be more of an effort than he had anticipated, half carrying a stumbling and giggling Dorian. Once they reached his room, Tristan pushed the door open and let him in. It was a wide enough room, with a large, comfortable bed. The red and gold carpet was thick and soft under his boots. The silk tapestries on the walls depicted scenes of lavishly dressed men and women partaking in what looked like a celebration around a fountain. Luckily, this one contained no unicorns or lions playing various musical instruments that he could see.

He stumbled towards the bed, easing Dorian’s arm off his shoulders as he helped him sit down. Dorian plopped on the mattress and groaned as he kicked his boots off. His eyes were closed and he let out a soft sigh while he worked the buckles of his coat open. “That brandy was excellent,” he said in a slurred voice. “If I may say so myself.”

He took off his coat and threw it over the side of the bed before pulling at the laces of his shirt. Tristan was panting slightly with the effort of practically carrying him up the stairs, but his breath suddenly caught in his throat. Dorian’s bare chest moved softly as he breathed, the dip in his collarbone glistening slightly with a sheer film of sweat. His dark, golden hued skin looked soft like velvet, smooth like silk. It stretched over the taut muscles of his abdomen as he tugged the hem of his shirt out of his breeches and pulled it over his head.

Tristan felt so flushed, there was sweat gathering at the back of his neck. Either the temperature in the room had suddenly risen to the levels of a heatwave, or he _really_ should stop looking. He shook his head slightly, hoping to bring some sense back into it. Dorian was obviously too drunk to realise what he was doing, while Tristan just stood there, ogling at him like a lecher.

He grabbed a blanket that lay folded at the edge of the bed and hastily shook it open. He made it a point not to stare at Dorian’s half naked body as he leaned over him to cover him, before Dorian could take off any more items of clothing. Tristan pulled the blanket up, until its top was resting snugly under Dorian’s chin.

That was better. Infinitely better.

He made as if to straighten back up, but instead gasped out loud and almost fell flat on top of Dorian when he was pulled towards him.

“Wait,” he breathed.

Tristan blinked, struggling to make sense of what had happened. He was hovering over Dorian, his hands at either side of him as he tried to keep his balance. Dorian’s one hand was tangled in the fabric of his shirt, the other curled around his back. They were so close, their noses almost touched. Eyes like polished silver peered straight into him. His lips glistened in the half dark when he lightly ran his tongue over them.

Tristan felt every muscle in his body bristling. He was irresistibly drawn to his lips, to the look in his eyes. Dorian’s warm breath washed over him, making every hair on his body stand on end. Maker, he longed to touch him. To press himself against him, run his hands over him and kiss the living breath out of him. Absolutely ravish him.

Yet, one thing was certain. Dorian was positively, undeniably, out-of-his-mind drunk.

Tristan tried to pull away, but Dorian held him fast. He brought his hand up to touch his cheek, his eyes gliding softly over his features. Tristan felt completely frozen and numb when Dorian gently brushed his nose over his.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, before surging forward and placing his lips on Tristan’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Dorian was singing is a French Renaissance chanson I really like and thought would be quite fitting here, as Orlais is essentially inspired by late Renaissance France as far as I know. I tweaked the lyrics just a little to fit the DA universe ;) 
> 
> You can listen to it here, if you fancy: [Dont vient cela - Claudin de Sermisy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNm12wdtIQo)
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! xoxo


	10. Thread Of Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be the first part of a longer chapter, which slowly but surely started getting out of control so I split it into two, slightly more palatable chapters. I hope you like it, and the next one will be up soon!

When Dorian’s lips closed over his, Tristan thought his heart would jump out of his throat.

It was like he had suddenly pressed his mouth against velvet. Dorian’s lips were soft and pliant, drawing him in with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs. The strong taste of brandy lingered on his tongue when he pressed it against Tristan’s lips, prying them apart.

It was like time had suddenly stopped. It shifted and warped around him, around them, around that very moment. The seconds stretched on languidly, hazily, until they felt like minutes, like hours, like the blink of an eye. He completely forgot about everything going on around him as he lost himself in that sweet sensation. A small moan escaped Dorian, the soft sound vibrating through Tristan, making him shiver. 

It was like...

Fuck, it was good. It was so unbearably, infuriatingly good that Tristan almost forgot that Dorian was drunk.

Yet, he was. There was an insistent tug on his consciousness, nagging at him even through his numbness. Dorian was drunk, and he probably didn’t even know what he was doing. As the sober party in this equation, Tristan had to put a stop to this. But leaning into the kiss was far easier than stopping it, and Tristan found himself battling against all odds to convince himself to break it.

Dorian’s hand left his neck to travel down, deft fingers pulling at the hem of his shirt. When Tristan felt warm fingers slithering under his clothes, he pulled back with a gasp. Dorian stared at him, blinking drunkenly.

“Dorian,” Tristan said breathlessly. “I… can’t. I’m sorry.”

Dorian regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Alcohol made him unusually slow in his reactions. “What’s wrong?”

Tristan let out a shaky sigh as he tried to pull away. Dorian’s hold on him didn’t falter. He tried to slither his hand ever upward under his clothes, but Tristan closed his fingers around his wrist to stop him. “No” he said again, more decisively this time. “We can’t. It’s not… it’s not right.”

A small, teasing smile curled Dorian’s lips. “And here I thought our Inquisitor liked playing with fire.”

Tristan frowned as he looked at him. Dorian returned his gaze, his steely grey eyes peering straight into his, if in a slightly hazy manner. “What do you mean?”

Dorian let out a small chuckle as he leaned forward and brushed his nose over Tristan’s. “You’ve said that you don’t care what people say about you. In that case, courting the ‘wicked, yet ultimately wicked magister’ is a sure-fire way to ruin your reputation.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Tristan froze. He gazed into Dorian’s eyes, for the first time noticing the bitterness hiding behind his façade. The tiny crack in the polished silver. It lasted only for a moment before melting into another of his usual teasing smiles. Even in the depths of his inebriation, Dorian took great care to hide his feelings, Tristan realised with a pang of sadness.

Dorian surged forward again, but Tristan pulled back as if stung. All the pieces started falling together in his mind. Dorian’s wariness ever since that moment they had shared in his tent in the Hinterlands. His unease, his troubled looks around the room, to make sure no one was watching. His questions, time and time again, about what people thought of him.

He actually believed that his mere presence would ruin Tristan’s reputation. And Tristan had possibly led him to believe that. Saying that he didn’t care about people’s talk was not too far away from admitting that people _did_ talk. About him. About them. And talk they did, frequently and with questionable motives, about the Inquisitor spending time with the ‘Tevinter’. Worse still, he had not even taken a moment to assess how Dorian would be affected by his attentions. 

The realisation felt like a punch in the gut. Easing himself out of Dorian’s grasp, he tried not to let any of his hurt show on his face.

With significant effort, Dorian pushed himself up on his elbow. His head lolled just a little before he fixed Tristan with a confused stare. “Where are you going?”

“It’s late,” Tristan said, straightening up. “I should let you rest.”

Dorian blinked sleepily. He glanced around him, as if assessing the room. “There’s more than enough space here. Why don’t you spend the night? I have some…” he paused for a moment, a deep yawn interrupting his speech, “interesting propositions for you.”

A tiny, pained smile came unbidden on Tristan’s lips. Even laughing at Dorian’s jokes was hard now that he had seen the hurt they were trying to conceal. “That would be… most unwise.” He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced towards the door. When he looked back at Dorian, he was watching him, confusion shining through his eyes, glazed over from the alcohol. Tristan pulled the blanket back over Dorian’s chest before taking a step back. “Goodnight, Dorian. Sleep tight.”

Dorian opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. 

Tristan didn’t even look back as he turned around and exited the room, letting the door close softly behind him. When he was safely into his own room, he let out a heavy sigh. The air felt unbearably heavy and stifling, and he walked over to the wide window, opening it to let some fresh air in. The view of the city was breath-taking. The tall white spires and domes with their intricate decorations shone eerily under the moon light. Music, songs and laughter were still audible from the many inns in that district, but the sound was soft and vague, like a lullaby carried away by the wind. The calm waters of the Waking Sea glittered in the night, the stars from the night sky reflecting on its dark surface.

He peered absently at it, taking a moment to calm his beating heart and the incessant thoughts in his head. He suddenly felt like the biggest, most insufferable fool in all of Thedas.

What was he doing? What had he been thinking? How had he let everything get so far? He had been spending time with Dorian without ever taking a moment to think about… anything. About his position, Dorian’s position. The Inquisition. It would all have been fine if he were another nobody, just looking to have some fun and get by, but now… It was painful to realise how little he understood his own reality. How utterly oblivious he was of the consequences. His trip to Val Royeaux had only made him more aware of how most people thought about the world. He had seen how everyone glared at Dorian, how they thought that Tevinter was the source of all evil. Tristan couldn’t even begin to imagine the burden Dorian must have been carrying all this time, being the bearer of such a depressing legacy. And all Tristan had done was make his position even more precarious, by making him the target of murderous glares and vulgar jokes, spoken by witless fools. All that, when, as the Inquisitor, he should have been protecting him. 

And to think that Dorian believed that _he_ was the one to ruin his reputation…

Blight, he couldn’t do this to him. Dorian’s situation was delicate as it was, without his own aid. He should stay away. Pretend nothing at all had happened and stay the hell away. Do the right thing, for once in his life.

It was not like Dorian would remember any of what had happened in the morning. 

With a sigh that carried more bitterness than he would care to admit, he took off his clothes and slithered into bed. 

* * *

Dorian cracked open one eyelid. Then the other. The rays of the morning sun peaking in through the thick curtains felt like stabs at the back of his brain. His head felt heavy like a boulder, and every breath was positively agonising. It didn’t help much that his stomach roiled painfully, no doubt from whatever swill he had managed to down the previous night.

With a muffled groan, he turned over to lie on his belly, shoving one pillow right over his head. He didn’t want to wake up and face the world. Not just yet.

He sleepily tried to go over the events of the previous night. He had spent most of it in the common room of the inn. There was music and laughter and drinks. Lots and lots of drinks. That man, Eluard, had asked him to try an awful, brownish drink the inn had, straight from the Korcari Wilds, but Dorian had remained unconvinced until he played and lost at cards. Then he had tried a glass, and more besides. 

After that, the night was pretty much a blur. He remembered singing an old Orlesian song, one that he had always liked, ever since he was a boy. It was such a wistful and melancholy little number. It was pretty much the only Orlesian he knew, but he knew he could sing that song perfectly even if he barely remembered his own name. 

After the song, he did remember seeing Trevelyan across the room. He was standing by the door, watching him. Dorian’s heart had done a distinctive little flip when he caught sight of him. With his plain white shirt and his blonde hair, it had seemed to Dorian like he was gleaming, like a firefly in the night. His hair had been hanging loose about his face, like it always was, his clothes simple, yet well made. Trevelyan was never one to bother too much with superfluous decorations and fancy clothes. Compared to the Orlesians around him, with their extravagant clothes and their ornate masks and heavy perfumes, he was completely unadorned, save for that ring he always wore. Dorian didn’t quite know how he managed it, yet he always managed to look… regal. Resplendent. A diamond in a sea of cheap glass ornaments. 

He had hopped to his side, not wasting a single moment before dragging him back to their table. They had drunk and laughed -he could vaguely remember Eluard saying something idiotic to him, but he couldn’t recall what- and then Trevelyan had helped him to his room. And then…

Dorian’s blood froze in his veins.

“ _Kaffas_!” he spat, jolting bolt upright. “ _Kaffas, kaffas, kaffas, kaffas_ …”

No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t! Surely it was only a figment of his imagination. A particularly vivid dream, perhaps. He had been having plenty of those lately, he absently remarked, with Trevelyan as the protagonist.

Yet, he knew that it wasn’t. It was far too vivid for it to be a dream. Trevelyan’s lips against his own, the feel of his smooth skin under his fingertips, his shaky breath washing over him... From what he could remember, it was good. Incredibly so, in fact. Dorian could always tell straight away when meeting someone whether they would be a good kisser or not, but with Trevelyan it had been far beyond his expectations. His lips were tender, precise, soft with care. There was the taste of brandy on his tongue, but beyond that there was a sweetness, such sweetness, that was just him. And the feel of him hovering over him, the warmth of his body so close to his, _fasta vass_ , the feel of it…

There was a fire coursing through him just at the very thought. But that fire was violently doused when he remembered that Trevelyan had broken off the kiss and walked away.

So. Pavus had managed to drink himself into a stupor and utterly embarrass himself yet again. It might have been a surprise if it hadn’t happened hundreds of times in the past. Dorian would normally laugh it off and forget about it the next day. But this time… This time, if the earth split in half and swallowed him, he would most probably cry with joy.

With a painful grunt, he kicked the covers off him and sat up on the bed, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were. Getting up and dressing himself was a struggle. He was most probably late for breakfast and would miss Trevelyan, which almost caused a wave of relief to wash through him. Still, he spent an inordinate amount of time fixing his hair in front of the mirror, making sure that every hair was in place. If he did spot Trevelyan in the large dining room, he had to be looking his absolute best. 

He rummaged through his travel chest, frantically searching for something to wear. His fingers brushed against rich velvet, and he immediately grabbed it. The cloak he pulled out was the finest he had brought with him, a cobalt blue velvet one with golden embroidery on the lapels. Dorian had paid a handsome sum to have the thread of gold shipped directly from Minrathous. He had thought about using the southern version of it, but when his tailor had presented it to him he had almost gagged. What passed for fashion in this part of the world was nobody’s business.

Dorian dressed himself with as much care and diligence as if he were putting his armour on. And wasn’t he, in a way? He had learned long ago that the best tactic in situations like these was to go for the offensive. And nothing did the trick better than a dramatic entrance.

With a last careful look in the mirror, and a last swipe of his palms over his shirt to straighten it, he walked towards the door. It felt oddly as if he were going to his own execution.

The common room was unusually quiet for that time of day. Only a few patrons occupied the small tables, and the scent of fresh baked scones and tarts hung thickly in the air. They smelt delicious, but Dorian wouldn’t have been able to even look at one at that point, let alone eat it. His stomach was in knots, as much from his hangover as from his nervousness. When he spotted Trevelyan sitting by one of the tables, his heart almost lurched in his chest.

He was wearing a simple cream coloured blouse and his usual dark leather breeches. His dark blue coat, stark and simply cut, was thrown carelessly over the back of a chair nearby. He was mindlessly chewing on a piece of berry tart as he skimmed through a report on the desk. He didn’t seem to have noticed Dorian at all.

Dorian put on his most disarming smile, hoping that he wasn’t looking as sick as he felt, and walked decisively over to his table. Trevelyan glanced up from the report, and his eyes widened as soon as he took in Dorian’s features. A few crumbles of tart were stuck at the edge of his mouth, and he brushed them away hastily as he swallowed and stood up. His eyes glided over him for a moment before snapping back up to his face.

“Lord Pavus,” he said, straightening up.

His formality drove a shot of bitterness through Dorian. So they were back at official titles, were they? Well. Two could play this game.

“My lord Herald Inquisitor,” Dorian replied, bowing his head. When he straightened up, he thought he saw a small frown passing over Trevelyan’s features, but it was polished away instantly. He sat back down, politely gesturing for Dorian to take a seat as well, should he wished.

Dorian most certainly took a seat, making sure his cloak didn’t get wrinkled as he did so. Trevelyan’s eyes darted uneasily about the room before he glanced at him. 

“Did you sleep well?” 

Dorian inclined his head and gave him a small, polite smile. “Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Yes, so did I.” He fumbled about with the reports in his hand, stacking the pages and smoothing them over with his palm. He leaned forward on the table, then seemed to change his mind, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other instead. 

Dorian watched him intently. The awkwardness and his stalling were grating at his nerves. He cleared his throat, intent on whisking it away and clearing the air once and for all. “Inquisitor, I wanted to-“

“Would you care for some tea?” Trevelyan asked abruptly, sitting up and glancing towards the innkeeper behind the bar. 

Dorian blinked at him. He didn’t seem to pay him any mind at all as he gestured to the innkeeper. “No, thank you, I’m-“

“A cup of the Rivaini black tea, please,” Trevelyan told the burly innkeeper as soon as he approached the table. “Do you take any honey in it? Or whisky? They have an excellent rye whisky here. Straight from Starkhaven” he said, turning to Dorian.

Dorian opened and closed his mouth. What on earth was wrong with this man? He looked at Trevelyan, who seemed engrossed in taking his order, and the innkeeper, who was eyeing them both curiously. Dorian was obviously not getting any words in today. 

He let out a small sigh of defeat, sitting back in his chair and waving his hand indifferently. “Certainly. Why not.”

Trevelyan nodded to the innkeeper, who gave him a wide, ingratiating smile and walked swiftly towards the bar. Dorian glanced at him, and let out a soft sigh.

“I, uh…” Trevelyan started, then stopped. He cleared his throat and tried again. “We will be leaving for Skyhold today.”

Dorian nodded slowly. “Yes, I am aware.”

“Right." He rubbed the back of his neck, then straightened up again. When he spoke, he was peering at something at the far end of the room, as if he were talking to himself. “Our ship is leaving for Jader in the afternoon. You can… have a walk about town. Or stay here, if you would like. I have another meeting now, but after I come back, we’ll leave straight away.”

Dorian followed his gaze, curious to see what he was looking at, but found nothing of note. The cold indifference in Trevelyan's tone was infuriating, but Dorian pushed his annoyance down and took a deep breath. He forced a smile on his face, hoping that Trevelyan would deign to look at him this time. “As you wish, Inquisitor."

The hiss of the boiling water and the chink of a cup set on a saucer sounded faintly from behind the bar. The silence that stretched between them while they waited for the tea was almost painful, heavy with awkwardness and anticipation. Trevelyan gave him a small, uneasy half smile in between glancing at the reports on the table before him. There was a tiny, barely perceptible dimple at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. Amidst the hazy cloud of his inebriation the previous night, that small detail shone brilliantly in Dorian’s mind. For once, he had been close enough to see it. He wondered that he had never noticed it before. Perhaps it was because Trevelyan smiled so rarely, that when he did, Dorian was too transfixed by the glitter in his eyes or the soft sound of his laugh to notice anything else. Maker, he really had a beautiful smile. It was such a shame that it didn’t show more often.

The very thought filled him with a vague sadness, that was suddenly too much for him to bear. Not to mention that his head was still throbbing, and he probably wasn’t capable of clear thought. He barely paid the innkeeper any mind as he placed the cup of tea by the table and walked away. Dorian leaned forward, his palm on the table before him.

“Inquisitor,” he said softly, drawing closer. Trevelyan lifted his eyes from the reports. The absent look in his eyes quickly melted into a half panicked one, his brows drawn together as he noticed the intent on Dorian’s face, and him drawing closer. He pulled slightly back, away from him. His instinctive movement made Dorian’s heart thrum painfully in his chest, but he brushed the hurt away. He had to clear the air, no matter what. “I wished to speak to you about last night. I wished to… to apologise for my behaviour, if it was inappropriate. What I did was… It was-“

“It’s fine.”

Dorian blinked at him. Trevelyan wasn’t even looking at him anymore, so absorbed was he in gathering his things from the table. Annoyance sparked in Dorian’s chest, but he pushed forward still, lowering his voice. “But, Inquisitor,” he pressed on, “I should-“

“Dorian, it’s fine,” he replied quickly, cutting him off again. He stood up, his reports tucked under one arm, his coat draped over the other. “I have to leave for my meeting now. Make sure you get ready for our journey back to Skyhold.”

He hesitated only for a heartbeat before turning around and stalking towards the inn’s door. He wasn’t exactly running, but it was dangerously close. 

Dorian was left staring after him. An odd feeling of emptiness spread through him. This had not gone as he had thought it would. He had expected it to be awkward and stiff, but he never thought Trevelyan would be so cold towards him. He was even colder and far more reserved than he had been when they had first met, and Maker knew Trevelyan could be as closed up as a clam when he chose. This whole debacle was getting from bad to worse.

He hurriedly sipped on his tea and stood up. He was not going to sit about, wallowing in his misery. He was in Val Royeaux, one of the most beautiful and renowned cities in Thedas. Who knew how long it would be before he had a chance to see a civilized place again? He resolved to take advantage of his time there as much as he could.

With the tail of his coat billowing behind him, he stepped out into a warm, sunny morning. The paved streets of Val Royeaux were busy as always, the white marbles glinting in the sun. He let his eyes roam idly over the intricate fountains and the statues that decorated the wide market square. The streets were full of lavishly dressed Orlesians, their servants tittering behind them. Not a few eyes strayed towards him as he passed. Their gazes held a mix of hostility and apprehension, barely obscured by their masks. Dorian held his head high, and even gave in to the temptation of flashing a bright smile to a few that glared particularly intensely.

He walked to the vendors' stalls, pretending to browse their wares for lack of something else to do. The market here was not so different than the ones back home. The exotic artefacts, the lush fabrics, the jewellery... There was even a street magician swallowing and breathing fire at the street corner, and a curious crowd gathered around him. Dorian watched him too, his mind already drifting to memories of his childhood, when his father would take him to the Minrathous market. He would watch the street magicians with wide eyes as they pulled doves out of their hats, or made pennies disappear in thin air only to seemingly pull them out of a bystander's ear. He remembered how fascinated he was, how he would give himself headaches trying to puzzle out their tricks. Until he had found out his own magic, that was. After that, it had been an upward slope of research and lifelong fascination with the thing. He had never looked the same way at street magicians ever again.

Still, the man here was not too bad. Dorian took a copper out of his coin purse and tossed it in his upturned hat on the floor before walking away, ignoring the gathered crowd's looks in his general direction.

Before leaving Tevinter, Dorian had never realised how different he looked to the people around him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was that gave him away exactly. The colour of his skin was unusual, that was certain, but was it something more? Was it his hair, his eyes, the way he moved? The way he talked, the way he dressed? Whatever it was, evidently everyone but him could pick up on it and it made him stick out like a sore thumb. In Minrathous, he had often been the object of attention, with his outfits and his appearance. He had been used to people looking at him like a strange, fascinating thing, and Dorian didn’t mind when they stared or whispered about him to each other. But then again, there was staring, and there was _glaring_. And ever since coming to the south, everyone seemed to be doing a lot of that.

Most days, even here, he could _almost_ pretend that people were gawking at him because of his outfits, rather than... well, himself. Almost. He didn't have much luck at pretending that day, though. He could already feel the unease slithering its way in as he walked down the busy market street.

Dorian let out a heavy sigh. He never thought he would see the day, but he actually missed Minrathous. A great deal, in fact. At least there he could blend in with the crowd. Not that he would ever want to, but he could still have that choice. At that very moment, that made a world of difference.

He stopped by the stall of a street vendor, selling intricate polished copper plates and mirrors. Dorian caught his reflection on the surface of a particularly shiny one. A couple strands of hair were sticking out, and he paused for a moment to run his fingers through his glossy black curls to fix them in place. Two tired eyes stared back at him, the noticeable circles underneath them darkening their outline, and he winced at how haggard he looked. The thread of gold embroidery on his coat glimmered beautifully, though. He smoothed his palm over it, relishing in the feel of the rich dark fabric. With a sharp breath, he straightened his shoulders and tossed his head back defiantly. If these Orlesians were going to glare, the least he could do was provide them with something dashing to glare at.

Trevelyan returned to the tavern before noon just as he had said. Dorian had just settled down at a table to have his humble lunch of pheasant tart, the books and a small pocket mirror he had bought on the chair beside him, when he burst through the door, with the ambassadors Lady Josephine had sent with him at his heel. He looked flustered, his eyebrows knit in concern.

Dorian stood up, drawing close to him. He didn’t even get the chance to speak at all before Trevelyan gave him the news.

“Our ship will not be leaving after all. Jader’s port is closed because of a land squabble between the ruling nobles that has gotten out of control.”

Dorian gaped at him. “Does that mean we’re stranded here?”

One of the ambassadors, a short Antivan woman with large chestnut eyes and her mass of black hair pinned in a braided bun at the top of her head, took a tiny step forward. “No, my lord. We will be travelling through land. I petitioned with the Mayor of Val Royeaux, who was kind enough to lend us horses and a wagon.”

“We need to leave soon,” Trevelyan interjected. He was twisting that ring on his finger, like he always was. “Now, if possible. We need to have crossed as much distance as we can before sundown. There is still the civil war going on in many parts of the countryside, so we need to be careful.”

“Of course,” Dorian said, somewhat breathlessly. Trevelyan nodded grimly and spun on his heel, walking swiftly towards the stairs to his room before Dorian could utter another word. The short brunette ambassador eyed him warily before following Trevelyan, gesturing at her associate, a tall boy lumbering behind her with a pack of papers and reports. 

Dorian stood for a moment in the center of the half empty common room, with its tall ornate stained glass windows and its inviting hearth. Just the thought of leaving all that behind to travel for days on horseback made his back ache. His appetite had already left him, and his head still felt sore and heavy like an overripe melon. Watching Trevelyan's back disappear behind the stair corner, Dorian wondered idly how much worse this day could actually go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :3
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	11. War Of The Lions

The bright midday sun bore mercilessly down on his head as Dorian rocked on his horse. It was a sturdy and surefooted bay gelding, kindly gifted to them by the Mayor of Val Royeaux before they left. Trevelyan was a little way ahead, riding on his spirited black mare. The highlights in his pale blonde hair caught the light, and his stark blue coat made his shoulders look just that little bit more square than usual. It made Dorian’s heart flutter awkwardly with longing in his chest.

His rigid back was the only thing Dorian could see as he rode behind him, or sometimes the side of his face whenever he turned to speak to the young ambassador. The girl, Sylesta, would gaze at him with so much awe and admiration, her liquid chestnut eyes were practically glittering. She just kept talking his ear off, about the Inquisition, and Orlais, and the nobles they had met, and Maker knew what else, her voice bubbling with excitement. If that smile of hers got any wider, Dorian might very well vomit.

Trevelyan didn’t seem to pay too much attention to her or the compliments she showered him with. He would nod grimly and reply curtly, as he usually did with most people, glancing absently ahead. He seemed too absorbed in studying the countryside around him to notice the way she smiled or the way she fluttered her eyelashes at him. In fact, he barely seemed to see her at all, glancing straight over her head when he turned to speak to her. Sometimes Dorian wondered whether he was a complete fool, or whether he was just faking it all.

Watching Trevelyan and the young ambassador proved to be somewhat effective in taking his mind off the growing nauseating feeling in his stomach and the increasingly depressing view around them. The farther they rode out from Val Royeaux, the more painfully evident in became that the Dales were in all-out war. It wasn’t just the trampled fields and scorched places of battle that gave it away. Most small settlements they passed along the way had either been ransacked or razed to the ground by Empress Celene’s or Duke Gaspard’s forces. The larger villages and towns still held, but the perimeters outside their gates were littered with makeshift tents and hovels, vendor stalls selling food of questionable quality at outrageous prices, and scores upon scores of refugees.

The sight of them tugged at Dorian’s heartstrings. Starving, miserable, the few belongings they had managed to salvage stuffed in hasty, messy bundles and decrepit wheelbarrows. Flocks of dirty children, their eyes much too big in their gaunt faces, looking up at them with something akin to hope and fascination. It was impressive, really, how they managed to still be fascinated by the world around them at that stage.

But worst of all was the _smell_. The stench that always followed human misery.

Maker, the entire Dales reeked of death, disease and destruction. All while the Orlesians threw lavish parties at their estates, and fuelled this chaos by trying to garner support for either Celene or Gaspard. Both different sides of the same terrible, dingy coin, as far as Dorian was concerned. He had seen these useless and idiotic machinations far too often while he was in Minrathous. Wherever wealth and power was concerned, people simply seemed to lose their wits completely.

Trevelyan was glancing around him, eyes narrowed, his scowl the deepest Dorian had seen it yet. It was an unspoken rule that no one talked about the Inquisition’s affairs with the Inquisitor other than his close advisors, but Dorian could not help but wonder what was going through his mind. From what Dorian knew of him, he did seem to be rather conscientious. Perhaps he was thinking about how to help the poor wretches without digging the Inquisition into a hole it could not get out of. Or perhaps he was trying to come up with the shortest route to get them out of there. At that moment, Dorian knew well which one of the two options he would gladly root for.

The small town of Verchiel was in a somewhat better state when they rode to it a couple days later. The fields around its low stone walls were not quite as full of people, with only the occasional merchant caravan and a few tents. As soon as they got closer, the reason became apparent.

A bunch of soldiers at the gates, their uniforms in the green and golden uniforms of Gaspard’s forces, turned around to stare at them. A surly woman with a tall, shiny helmet walked forward and raised her arm.

“Halt,” she said in a commanding voice.

Trevelyan reined his horse in. The woman came closer, two officers in tow, their eyes just as hard and examining as hers. “What business have you?” she asked in a soft Orlesian accent. Trevelyan pursed his lips slightly before glancing at Sylesta at his side.

She caught on his meaning straight away. “We’re simple travellers, my lady,” she said. “We just want to pass through. We mean you no trouble.”

The woman looked long and hard at Trevelyan. Her keen eyes glided over him slowly, no doubt taking in every detail. Her gaze paused on the harness on his horse, the gilded buckles shining in the sun, and an odd flicker passed over her features. Surely, anyone who had silver buckles on his horse was no mere nobody.

With a sharp nod, the soldiers behind her went around them to inspect their wagon. Dorian noticed Trevelyan’s lips tightening ever more, but thankfully, he said nothing. Sylesta and her apprentice glanced at each other, blood sapping from their faces as they waited for the soldiers to finish their inspection. Several minutes of awkward silence later, the soldiers emerged again, and one of them whispered something in the woman’s ear.

She glanced at all of them again in turn before nodding slowly. “Everything seems to be in order. You may pass.”

Trevelyan didn’t even look at her as he urged his horse forward. Sylesta, on the other hand, showered her with thanks and well wishes, her smile as wide as she could make it. Now, there was a girl that had her head about her shoulders. It suddenly became all too apparent why Lady Josephine had chosen her to accompany the walking, talking disaster that was Inquisitor Trevelyan.

The streets of Verchiel were relatively clean, if somewhat busier than one would expect for a town such as this. Most people they passed by would stop whatever they were doing to look up at them questioningly, but no one seemed to pay them too much mind. Gaspard’s soldiers had done a good job at keeping order, it seemed. Yet Dorian couldn’t help but notice a certain tension in the air, like a bow that had been strung too tightly. It was in the people’s eyes, in the tightness in their expressions, in the way they glanced at the soldiers passing through the streets, hurriedly getting out of their way. Something told Dorian that they had all seen their fair share of war, too. 

The small inn they passed by seemed to be among the livelier buildings in that place. A sign with a cockerel playing a lute swung languidly on it hinges, and a thick trail of smoke rose from one tall chimney. Smells of freshly baked bread, stew and ale emanated from it. It did look rather inviting, Dorian remarked. If he wasn’t feeling so uneasy, he would certainly contemplate stopping and having a mug of ale and something hearty and freshly cooked. But, as it was, they had a long way to go still, and-

Without a word, Trevelyan swung one leg over the side of his saddle and slid off his horse. Dorian blinked as he watched him hand the reins of his mare to the stableboy, tossing a silver coin at him. The boy’s eyes widened as he looked at the coin and took his hat off, bowing his head and mumbling his thanks.

Dorian glanced at Sylesta, whose shrug carried just a tiny bit of hopelessness. With a sigh, Dorian got off his horse as well.

“One of you should stay back and keep an eye on the horses and the wagon” he told Sylesta under his breath once she had dismounted. “I don’t like this place.”

The girl pursed her lips only slightly, but said nothing as she gave him a sharp nod.

Trevelyan was already sitting at the bar, sipping on a mug of ale when Dorian walked in the busy common room. Not a few eyes strayed in his direction, but evidently people around there had seen far worse than him walking about, so they didn’t seem to care very much. He watched the burly innkeeper talk animatedly to Trevelyan as he got closer, but only caught a few words of what he said. His Orlesian, admittedly, was less than average.

Trevelyan glanced at him when he sat next to him. He reached in his purse and slid a gold coin to the innkeeper. The man smiled widely as he disappeared behind the bar, and a moment later, he was back with a steaming bowl of stew and a glass of what seemed to be some fine red wine. 

Dorian eyed the drink and the plate curiously as the innkeeper placed them before him, before glancing at Trevelyan. “What’s this, then?”

“Precisely what it looks like,” he replied carelessly, sipping on his drink. “Good wine and some warm food are just the thing to lift your spirits when travelling. The stew must be good, so far as I can tell.”

“One would have thought that with the amount of coin you gave one would be able to purchase ten bowls like these, not just this one. Unless there were flakes of gold mixed in with the salt, I don’t see how it could cost that much.”

Trevelyan nodded absently. “That’s war for you.”

Dorian would have continued the conversation, but his stomach was growling insistently. He picked up the spoon, and swallowed a hearty mouthful of the stew. It was, indeed, very good. He had almost downed half of it before noticing that Trevelyan was not eating anything.

He set his spoon down and carefully patted his lips with a napkin. “What about you? Are they not serving food to handsome blonde gentlemen in this establishment?” he mused with a teasing smile. 

Trevelyan shook his head, as if he had barely heard him. “Not hungry.” He gulped down the rest of his drink and set the mug down on the bar with a hollow thud. “Quite thirsty, though.” He reached inside his purse again for another coin, before Dorian placed his hand on his arm.

“Forgive me, Inquisitor,” Dorian started, struggling to keep the casual smile on his face, “but drinking on an empty stomach would be just the thing to positively lower _your_ spirits. Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?”

Trevelyan blinked at him, his gaze sliding to Dorian’s hand on his arm before snapping back up to his face. A slight flush crept up his cheeks as he cleared his throat. “Riding on horseback all day makes me queasy” he said softly. “Besides, I only came in here to ask for some information. People’s tongues are usually looser in places where there’s food and drinks about.”

Trevelyan ran a hand through his hair, glancing around the tavern. He took so much care in looking at anything but Dorian, that he might as well have twisted a knife in his heart. He promptly withdrew his hand from his arm, swallowing thickly.

“And did you learn anything?” he asked him in a tone that he hoped was casual, taking a sip of his wine.

Trevelyan let out a soft sigh. “Apparently the war is going worse than anyone thought. The squabbles between Gaspard and Celene are leading nowhere, and there have been more deserters over the last few months than either of the forces could count. They have been forming small bands and attacking villages and settlements everywhere. The innkeeper said that they even rode through here about a week ago, and would have burned the place to the ground had Gaspard’s men not driven them away.” He paused for a moment to tiredly rub at his eyes. “The Dales are in complete disarray. We might as well be travelling through a mine field.”

The wine suddenly tasted very sour in Dorian’s mouth. It wasn’t from the news, not really. He possessed eyes and ears. He had seen and heard how dire the situation was. But seeing Trevelyan like that… There were dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks looked unusually gaunt. The ring on his finger shone in the dancing light of the flames in the hearth as he twisted it idly, the frown he was wearing carving deep lines in his forehead.

He looked… very weary. It didn’t take much skill in observation to figure out how little travelling for days agreed with him. Dorian cursed himself for not noticing before. All of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and draw him close to him. Run his fingers through his hair and kiss his sullen, rosy lips, until that frown melted away. And after that, perhaps give another gold coin to the innkeeper and ask him for his best room and hot water for a bath, then drag Trevelyan up the stairs by his coat collar, and...

Dorian sighed. As tempting as those daydreams were, they were utterly pointless. Not to mention distracting. So, he resolved to do the only thing he could at that moment.

He motioned to the innkeeper, who approached them eagerly. “Another bowl of stew, please. And some fresh bread.”

Trevelyan eyed him warily. “Still hungry?”

“No,” he replied, reaching for his purse, “but you are.”

Trevelyan’s mouth twisted in faint disgust when the innkeeper brought the stew and bread. He peered at Dorian under furrowed brows.

Dorian huffed in exasperation. “Don’t look at me like that. You have to eat. There’s no way you’re getting through the entire journey to Skyhold with just ale and dried rations.”

Trevelyan opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it closed when Dorian shook a finger in front of his face. “Now, not another word from you. You’re going to finish that entire bowl, or neither of us is leaving this place.”

Dorian didn’t think he would ever see a grown man pout, yet, lo and behold, that day had come. It was fortunate that not many people around these parts knew what the Inquisitor looked like. Otherwise, they would just see the leader of one of the most feared organisations in Thedas frowning and pursing his lips, grumbling under his breath as he forced spoonfuls of stew in his mouth, all the while sneaking grim glances at Dorian.

The fact that he still managed to look adorable while doing so was surely one of the greatest injustices Dorian had ever come across in his life.

True to his word, it was only after Dorian was certain that Trevelyan’s bowl had been wiped clean that they both left the inn to get their horses. The sun was way past the middle of the sky, and the shadows of the lone trees and deserted houses they passed along the way were steadily growing long.

Other than the occasional garrison stopping them to inquire after their business in occupied lands, their travel was pretty uneventful for the rest of the day. That was, until they reached a crossing just a few hours out of Verchiel.

Trevelyan reined his horse in as soon as he saw the men gathered at the crossing. They were a small group, wearing Empress Celene’s colours. It took Dorian a few seconds to realise that the white and blue lion of Empress Celene’s emblem had been torn from their uniform. With their clothes that had seen better days and their makeshift tents, they looked more like a rag tag band than a military unit.

Dorian urged his horse close to Trevelyan’s. He was watching the men under furrowed brows, his lips a tight line.

“These gentlemen don’t look particularly friendly, Inquisitor. Perhaps we should try a different road?”

The young ambassador glared at him from Trevelyan’s other side, her nostrils flaring slightly. “There is no other way. The other road has been occupied by Gaspard’s forces, and it’s a day’s ride away, besides. We’ll have to draw closer and see what they want, Inquisitor. Perhaps we might be able to reach an agreement of sorts.”

Trevelyan barely looked at them as he snapped his mare’s reins and urged her forward. “Stay back” he commanded them sternly before approaching the men in a slow trot.

The girl gave Dorian a wary look. They both watched Trevelyan approach the men, his back straight and rigid. But when Dorian saw the men smiling slyly and stealing glances at their wagon, apprehension gripped at him with icy talons. These were no soldiers. They were bandits.

Without a second thought, he urged his horse forward, ignoring the girl’s hushed protests. He wasn’t about to leave Trevelyan to walk alone into the wolf’s mouth.

“We are an ambassadorship,” he heard Trevelyan telling them. “We are passing peacefully. We have no allegiance to either Celene or Gaspard. Let us pass.”

A tall man, with a wide, condescending smile and his bald head shining in the bright sunlight, took a step forward. His hands were resting provokingly on his sword hilt, hanging by his belt. “You think I care a rat’s arse about Celene or Gaspard? We don’t belong to either of these bastards. We’re just honourable men, trying to make a living in the chaos. Our own way” he added, his eyes flashing momentarily with a sort of greed that set a ball of trepidation in Dorian’s stomach. Several men behind him muttered their assent, nodding.

Dorian felt Trevelyan bristling. He straightened up on his saddle, his back so rigid it looked like he had a wooden plank under his coat. Thankfully, when he spoke, his voice was level and calm, if rather clipped. “Let us pass, and we will cause you no trouble.”

The man glanced at his men, who sneered and laughed. He spit at the ground and lifted his eyes at Trevelyan. The latter returned his arrogant look with a disdainful one, that had Trevelyan written all over it. Dorian was surprised that the man didn’t melt on the spot.

The bandit leader seemed not to notice Trevelyan’s glare. His smile, when it curled his lips, was small and sly like a fox’s. “I know you’ll cause us no trouble, pretty boy. Because you can’t. It’s just you and a couple kids back there. That being said” he added, leaning casually on his back leg, “we won’t cause you any trouble either. As long as you agree to help our cause.”

“And what would that be, exactly?”

“We are free men now. We belong to no king or queen, but that means that we have no king’s or queen’s backing either. We have to support ourselves. If you catch my drift.”

Trevelyan’s mouth twisted in a scowl. “I don’t think I do.”

The man chuckled, but still went on. “Alright. Let me make it plain and simple for you. You give me your horses and whatever you have in that wagon of yours, and you can walk out of here a free man, on your own two legs. And none would be the wiser.”

A slow mirth spread on Trevelyan’s face. Oh, this was not going well. Dorian held his breath for what was about to come.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work.”

The man’s expression darkened instantly. Without a word, his men gathered behind him, eyeing them menacingly, their hands hovering over the swords hanging by their belts.

Dorian did a quick calculation. There were, what, six, seven men, fully armed and thirsty for blood? Against, what, two of them?

How bad could this possibly go?

It didn’t take too long for Dorian to find out. With a lightning quick move, Trevelyan jumped off his horse, slapping it hard on its rear so the animal flew away with a loud whinny. The rest happened so quickly, that Dorian hardly had time to dismount and grab the staff that was strapped at the side of his saddle.

One of Trevelyan’s smoke bombs went off, engulfing them all in a thick, opaque cloud. The men started coughing at spinning about, searching for him in the chaos.

The first two men went down before they could so much as yell. In a flurry of quick strikes, Trevelyan cut them down, dragging his poisoned daggers along their exposed throats. The smoke cloud slowly started dissipating, and the remaining men’s eyes fixed themselves on him, as their confusion and shock melted into rage.

The leader advanced towards him, while three others followed close behind. “You are dead, boy” the man hissed.

A deep scowl crossed Trevelyan’s face as he flicked his daggers, clearing them from the blood still dripping from their razor-sharp edges.

Dorian watched him as his body melted into a crouching posture, like a panther ready to spring. With a sudden leap, he landed to the side and out of the way of the man’s reach, before any of them could realise what was happening. He moved fluidly, his knives plunging effortlessly through the gaps in the men’s armours.

A fireball left Dorian’s hands to land squarely at the back of one of the men’s head, sizzling hair and skin in the process. The lad screamed and fell on the ground, writhing about to get the flames off him. The others turned around to stare at him, their eyes widening as soon as they glimpsed Dorian’s staff. Being a mage always did have that effect on people in this part of the world. It could make someone’s life a living hell in every other respect, but in battle it provided a significant advantage. No one would willingly engage a mage, if they knew what was good for them.

The men recovered quite quickly from their shock, though. One of them, an archer, quickly knocked an arrow and drew his bow. Dorian called forth a barrier just a heartbeat before the arrow bounced on it and slid off with a crackle. With a flourish of his staff, Dorian hurled another fireball in the archer’s direction, burning the bow right out of his hands.

From the corner of his eye Dorian glanced at Trevelyan, engaged in a deadly dance with the leader. The tall man was a strong and agile warrior, and quick with a sword. He lunged at Trevelyan again and again, slashing mercilessly at him. Trevelyan evaded his attacks rather easily, but it didn’t take a lot of skill to see that he was starting to tire. Dorian didn’t know much about sword fighting, but he quickly realised with a pang of worry that despite his fluid movements, Trevelyan hadn’t managed to land a decent strike on the man, no matter how many times he tried to outmanoeuvre him.

Dorian had to take greater measures, it seemed.

The spell he started reciting was one that he had learned when he was still quite young, only months after his fourteenth birthday. He still remembered memorizing the complicated wording in the room in the basement that served as his study, in the middle of the night by the light of a candle. It wasn’t until his tenth or eleventh try that he had started hearing the vague whispers from the Fade, always a sign that the spell was starting to work. He had just finished reciting it when a servant had walked in to bring him his tea, and the spell suddenly went off.

Dorian would never forget the sight. The tray she was holding dropped to the floor with a deafening crash that echoed in the wide room. She fell on her knees, clutching her head and screaming bloody murder while an eerie purple light shone through her eyes. It had taken her days to fully recover from the shock of being the receiver of a powerful, yet somewhat crude terror spell. Dorian’s father had been impressed that she hadn’t completely lost her wits when she came to.

“Even when your spells are rudimentary, there’s still a certain elegance to them,” he had told him, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. “You did well, Dorian.”

Dorian distinctly remembered being so full of pride, he thought he would burst.

The reaction of the men here was not very different to that poor servant’s. Some of them dropped their swords and fell down shaking, others ran around screaming. Their leader, the most fearless one of all, it seemed, was simply standing frozen, staring at something that no one else could see, his sword trembling in his hand. Trevelyan didn’t miss a heartbeat before plunging his daggers in the man’s neck.

He dropped to the ground, thrashing about in a puddle of his own blood. Just moments before the others snapped out of the spell, Dorian hurled another fireball, frying another man on the spot.

Dorian knew well that it was useless to use another terror spell on the remaining two so soon. What was even more troubling, though, was that he couldn’t really call forth any other spell. His reserves were starting to burn away, and he felt the exhaustion from travelling the entire day quickly overtaking him.

He had to do something, though. The men were advancing towards Trevelyan, bared swords gleaming in the bright sunlight. Trevelyan took a careful step back. His brow was gleaming with sweat, and his chest stretched the fabric of his shirt with every panting breath.

Dorian searched frantically in his satchel for a lyrium potion. He cursed the fact that they had been so ill-prepared when they started, with only a few potions and some food rations. No one had expected horseback travel through the damned Orlesian countryside, ravaged by war and littered with bandits. And the Val Royeaux market could not possibly have the potions that Dorian needed. He always mixed his lyrium potions himself rather than entrust them to someone else. But now, he just wished he had brought something, anything to help him replenish his magic. Even if it destroyed his liver in the meantime.

He watched Trevelyan as he rummaged through his bag. He stepped backwards, eyes jumping from one man to the other, trying to keep them within his field of vision. One of them lunged at him, and Trevelyan jumped back, agile as a cat, his hands firmly gripping his daggers.

In the blink of an eye, he rolled to the side, landing just shy of the man’s flank, and plunged his daggers deep in the cracks in the man’s armour. He pulled back, but not before the man lunged at him, slashing furiously.

Dorian winced when he heard Trevelyan’s growl of pain. Blood started flowing down his arm from the cut the man had managed to inflict on him. Maker damn him, he had to do something!

Magic was completely snuffed out of Dorian, and Trevelyan was still struggling with the first man, while the second stepped towards him. At the rate this was going, Trevelyan would surely die.

It suddenly felt like Dorian was watching himself watch Trevelyan fighting for his life against those men. Dorian wasn't entirely conscious of his actions when he lunged forward, landing on the advancing man with as much force as he could muster. They both fell on the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs. He was still recovering from the shock of crashing against the hard ground when the man, obviously much better trained in hand-on-hand combat than him, scrambled on hands and knees and fell on him, his face twisted with menace.

They struggled for what felt like aeons, the man trying to grab at Dorian’s neck and Dorian trying to shove him away. He managed to land a powerful fist on the man’s face, breaking his nose. He reeled back with a muffled cry, but before Dorian could stand up, he lunged at him again, knocking Dorian’s head against a rock.

White stars, bright against impossible darkness, swirled in Dorian’s vision. He was flailing about helplessly, trying to protect himself from the man's blows, when a sharp cry echoed above him. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the man on his back, lying on the blood soaked ground, while Trevelyan stood over him, panting. He was flustered and sweating, clutching the wound on his arm while blood flowed between his fingers.

With effort, Dorian pushed himself up. His head ached horribly, and he could feel a small, liquid trickle arcing down his scalp. He gingerly touched his hair and glanced at his hand. It came away crimson. Oh, that would leave a nasty scar if it wasn’t treated straight away. At least it was on the back of his head and not the front. He was lucky in the midst of his bad luck, at the very least.

Trevelyan looked at him, examining him for injuries. Even as he stood, he was swaying from the exhaustion and the blood loss. “Are you alright? Were you hurt?”

Dorian shook his head lightly. “I’m fine. But you’re not.” Gingerly, he stepped close to him. He could see his hand trembling as he pushed his daggers back in their scabbards.

“I’m alright, really-“ he started saying, but his words were cut short when Dorian placed his hand around his back and tossed Trevelyan’s uninjured arm over his shoulder.

“Let’s get you back to camp, hmm?” Dorian asked him softly. For once, Trevelyan brought no objections. Maker, he must have really been in terrible pain.

As soon as they went back, Sylesta and the boy helped Dorian carry Trevelyan back to their wagon. It didn’t take long for the boy to light a fire, boil some water and cut up some clean bandages, after Dorian’s instructions. A quick look through the bundles they had brought from Val Royeaux, and Dorian found a few healing potions that Sylesta had bought before they left. She had proven incredibly useful after all, it seemed.

He felt the wound on the back of his head slowly mending as he downed the potion, wincing from the foul taste. Adan back in Skyhold was certainly not the best herbalist Dorian had met, or the most enthusiastic about his craft, but he could at least brew a potion that didn’t make your insides roil as soon as it touched your lips.

Swishing some water around in his mouth to wash away the horrible aftertaste of the potion, Dorian glanced at Trevelyan. He was sitting on a log by the fire, trying to swat a pale and almost weeping Sylesta away. She kept fussing over him, tending to some surface wounds on his face and hands.

“Oh, this is such a disaster,” she kept muttering under her breath. “The Orlesian- Inquisition relationships… And the Herald of Andraste! Oh, thank the Maker…”

Relief was evident in Trevelyan’s face when she finally let him go and disappeared behind the wagon to set the tents and prepare dinner. Trevelyan was looking rather pale when Dorian approached him, carrying a small medicine pack he had found among their things, and the bandages. The sun was already dipping below the horizon, its waning light casting soft, golden shadows on Trevelyan's face. He was quietly sipping on a healing potion, absently watching the flames crackle before him. He jolted slightly when he noticed Dorian coming closer.

Dorian sat next to him, pretending not to notice as Trevelyan scooted over just a hair, carefully away from him. With a smile on his face that he hoped hid his tiredness, he gazed into his dark blue eyes. “Sylesta seems to have done most of the work. But that wound on your arm looks particularly nasty. Can I have a look at it?”

Trevelyan frowned slightly, but nodded. Wincing, he pulled at the top of his coat, trying to get his arm out.

“Here, let me help.” Dorian gently tugged at the fabric, careful not to disturb any of his injuries. As soon as the coat was off, he helped him take off his shirt as well. Dorian tried his best not to look at the taut muscles of his back, or his well-defined chest as he did so. He had enough on his plate without focusing on that.

Examining the wound was much easier, and much less conflicting. Dorian scrunched his nose lightly as he looked at it. “It’s deep, but it’s clean. The healing potion will do most of the job, but you’ll still need some stitches. For the nastier part around the middle here” he said, pointing vaguely at the wound.

Trevelyan glanced at it and frowned. “I thought you didn’t know healing.”

Dorian scoffed. “I said I’m not the best at healing magic, yes, but I can stitch and wrap a wound as well as the next man, thank you very much.”

Trevelyan chuckled breathily. “Alright then.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have anything for the pain. You’ll have to grit your teeth a little.”

“I know a cure for that,” Trevelyan said softly. With his other hand he rummaged through the pockets of his discarded coat and pulled out a small flask. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a healthy sip of whatever was in there. He winced as he swallowed.

Dorian watched him silently, his matted hair that fell over his eyes, the smudges of dirt on his face, his pale skin, taut from weariness. Even when he looked like death himself, he still managed to be beautiful. It was utterly infuriating.

Trevelyan glanced at him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What?”

Dorian jolted as if pinched. He wasn’t aware he had been staring. “Oh, nothing. I was… simply contemplating the fact that this trip didn’t turn out the way I thought it would. I guess I had expected a lot more strolling along glorious marble paved streets and shopping, and much less nearly dying at the hands of frenzied strangers.”

Trevelyan laughed weakly at that as he pushed the cork back on the mouth of the flask. The sound made the now familiar longing stir in Dorian’s chest. That tiny dimple was at the corner of his mouth again, soft and but clearly visible against his pale skin. Dorian had to practically fight the unbearable urge to run his thumb over it, to pull him flush against him and kiss him until all the sadness and broodiness was burnt right out of him. He absently noticed that his hands had curled into fists, and he forced himself to open them.

As he tossed the flask away, Trevelyan’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Suppressing a deep, soul-wrenching sigh, Dorian nodded sharply, picking up the medicine pack that lay at his side. In the shifting amber light of the fire, he threaded a thin strand of gut through a curved needle. Dorian gingerly remarked that after coming to the Inquisition, his hands had grown some very hard and aesthetically displeasing calluses, what with all the travelling and the fighting. A healer’s hands were supposed to be soft and precise, but even so, he had to do the stitching of Trevelyan’s wounds himself. He would entrust that task to no one else.

Before starting his work, he glanced at Trevelyan. He was so close to him now, he could practically smell his skin. Sweet and slightly musky, with a just hint of lavender soap. Even mingled with the scent of fresh blood and the elfroot from the healing potion in his breath, Dorian could feel the waves of longing rush through him. He was almost positive that he had never smelt anything as intoxicating.

Dorian blinked the troublesome thoughts away as he tried his best to concentrate. “Are you ready?”

Trevelyan nodded and looked away, clenching his jaw.

It was harder work than Dorian had thought it would be. It had been a long while since he had done work like that – it had been mainly on cadavers, where the skin was already cold and stiff. With a living person, the skin was soft and pliable, and the fresh blood made it slippery. But he somehow managed to make quick work of it. Trevelyan’s occasional wincing and sharp inhales tugged at Dorian’s heart, but other than that, he barely made another sound. His jaws were locked so tight Dorian thought his teeth would crack.

When he was finished, Dorian applied a tiny bit of elfroot ointment on the wound, and dressed it with a clean bandage. “Well. You’re done and dusted now, I guess.”

Trevelyan gave a quick look at it and nodded. He looked even more haggard than before. “Thank you, Dorian,” he said quietly. “Really.”

Dorian resisted the impulse to stare longingly into his eyes like a besotted puppy, and instead flashed him a hurried smile as he placed the needle and string back in the bag. He was ready to wish him a good night and retire, when Trevelyan’s voice stopped him.

“Dorian, I’m… I’m sorry. About before.”

Dorian stared at him, at a loss for words. His thoughts fled instinctively to that moment, all those nights before. That drunken, ill-fated moment. The feel of Trevelyan's velvet lips on his, his breath, warm and shaky, washing over him. It was seared in his memory, and branded on his skin. Hope fluttered in Dorian’s chest before he could stop it. But then, Trevelyan continued.

'What I did was too rash. I shouldn’t have engaged those men in a fight. I placed you in danger, and… I don’t want that. It’s the last thing I want, actually. If anything happened to you because of me, I…”

Dorian gazed into his eyes, those dark blue eyes, clear and honest, but impossibly closed off and distant at the same time, and this time he didn’t try to look away. The sun was shining behind his head, its soft golden light glowing like a halo around him.

Sylesta and the boy were a little way away, too busy preparing dinner to hear them. Dorian took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Inquisitor, I wish to speak with you. I think it is imperative that we speak about… about what happened between us the other night.“

The dreamy look that had lingered on Trevelyan’s face mere moments before melted away into a frown. His back went straight and rigid once again, and he glanced about him nervously. He didn’t even look at him as he spoke. “There’s nothing to speak about, Dorian.”

At that moment, Trevelyan might as well have slapped him across the face. It would have made him less angry if he had. Gritting his teeth, he tried his best to keep his voice level when he spoke. “But there _is_.”

Trevelyan didn’t even seem to listen as he searched for a clean shirt amidst his belongings. He shook it open and pulled it over his head, careful not to disturb the bandage on his arm. “It’s alright.”

“It’s most certainly _not_ alright!”

Trevelyan gaped at him, frozen for a long moment, as if he had been struck by lightning. He looked around again, and scrubbed a hand through his hair with a sharp exhale. “Dorian, let’s… Let’s just forget about it.”

“I can’t forget about it!” Dorian snapped. He was vaguely aware that he was yelling, but even if he could stop himself, he didn’t know if he wanted to. “And I won’t. Something did happen between us. Something you very plainly don’t want to speak about, but I do. I have to. I can’t… I can’t leave it like this!”

Anger, blazing hot and thick like tar, bubbled in Dorian’s veins. A small voice inside him told him that he should apologise and excuse himself right that very moment. Trevelyan was still the Inquisitor. No matter what had happened between them, that could never change. But as his heart beat like mad against his chest, all the rules of propriety and good behaviour that had been ingrained in him since he was old enough to think had flown straight out the window.

He gazed into Trevelyan’s face, so handsome despite that infuriating scowl that made Dorian want to pull his hair right out, and he suddenly couldn’t care less about keeping face.

Trevelyan regarded him seriously, brows furrowed. His lips were pressed in a tight line and his face looked as if made of stone, but he couldn’t hide the blush that was creeping up his cheeks. “What do you want me to say, Dorian?”

His cold tone felt like a stab in the gut, but Dorian hastily brushed the hurt away. He drew closer, and this time, Trevelyan did not pull away from him. “Tell me that it’s not all in my head," he pleaded, his voice thick with the strain of keeping it level. His eyes were so intently fixed on Trevelyan’s, that he might as well have born holes into them. “That I didn’t make it all up. There _is_ something between us. And you know it just as well as I do.”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened until they were as round as saucers. His cheeks were so flushed, that he looked vaguely purple. Dorian would almost feel sorry for the man if he wasn’t so furious.

At that moment, Dorian noticed Sylesta standing a little way away. She was holding two steaming bowls of stew in her hands, her eyes as wide as he had seen them yet.

“Inquisitor, I brought you your dinner. And Lord Pavus…” she trailed off as she noticed the look on Dorian’s face and Trevelyan’s furious blush.

Trevelyan gaped at her, then at Dorian, then back at her, like a startled deer. The three of them just stared at each other, no one daring to utter a single word. If a needle fell right at that moment, Dorian was sure he was going to hear it.

Sylesta swallowed nervously, and took a deep breath. She proved to be the bravest among them, after all. “I… should probably go. Leave you to… to-“

With a sharp huff, Dorian stood up. He couldn’t bear one more second of this ridiculous charade. Trevelyan simply gawked at him like a dimwit. If Dorian were holding a book in his hands at that very moment, he would want nothing more than to smack him on the head with it.

“Nonsense!” he said to the girl, flashing her as wide as smile as he could make it without looking completely mad. “I shall retire. Good evening to you, Inquisitor. My lady.” With a bow that was much too hurried, he briskly walked away. He could feel Trevelyan’s and Sylesta’s eyes on his back, even after he had entered his tent and the tent flap had snapped securely behind him.

It was only after he had crumbled to his knees on the hard mattress that he let the tears he had been holding back run down his cheeks in an unbroken stream, knuckles between his teeth muffling the sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come cry about Dorian with meeee :'((
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	12. Fire in the Embers

“Gaps in the Armor.”

Tristan glared at Heir, the elven woman that Leliana had brought to Skyhold to train him. She was short and lithe, her dark, deep set eyes unabashedly meeting his in a level stare. The long stick she was holding was propped on the ground and she was leaning casually on it.

“We have practiced this attack already,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean you did it well,” she retorted flatly, not batting an eyelid. “Do it again.”

Tristan pursed his lips. He had never thought that he needed further training -years of sword fighting lessons in Ostwick had given him adequate skills to hold his own in a fight, any fight, or so he thought- but Heir had a mind of her own. She was apparently a master assassin, if anyone could be called that, and infuriatingly thorough in her instruction. She was shorter than a child, but her austere gaze made him feel as if he were ten years old and practicing with his fencing tutor.

With a sharp exhale he lunged forward, moving his dagger as precisely as he could, targeting the vital points that she had shown him. Shoulders, ribs, elbows, knees, any part of the body that could be peeking through plate armour, any place where a tendon could be slashed, incapacitating an opponent swiftly and mercilessly. The sun fell hot and burning on his skin as he flowed through the movements.

Heir avoided his attacks easily, moving only an inch away from the tip of his dagger, her hands holding her stick clasped behind her back. Maker, but she was impossible to catch.

Tristan took a step back, panting with the effort.

She didn’t even wait for a moment before ordering him again. “Mark of Death,” she commanded in a low voice.

Clenching his jaws, Tristan obeyed. A half turn, a leap, a quick and flowing slash right for the heart. She evaded it effortlessly, stepping back as if she were lighter than a feather and turning his practice dagger to the side with the end of her stick.

“Again.”

Tristan scoffed as he returned to position. He threaded a finger through his matted hair to push it away from his face.

Another attack later and she had knocked his dagger out of his hand, his wrist was lodged firmly under her arm and her stick just a hair away from his face. He thought he saw contempt flashing in her dark eyes before she unhanded him without so much as a word and returned to her position.

Tristan ran his palm over his brow and let out a long sigh. His body was slick with sweat, fat drops arcing lazily down his back. It stung when it reached the sword wound that was still healing on his arm. The one Dorian had helped stitch and wrap.

It had only been a few days before, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Tristan knew he needed to have the stitches removed, but going to the healer to remove them always seemed to slip his mind for some reason.

His gaze drifted as if by instinct to the tall window on the side of the library tower above him. The window looking into Dorian’s study. Some mornings he thought he could sense him looking down into the yard from his spot in the library, watching him. Whenever Tristan looked up, though, there was no one there. Perhaps it was only his imagination.

“Inquisitor,” Heir barked.

He jolted and blinked at her. She was staring at him so intently, for a moment he wondered whether he had broken a vase or dragged mud in the house from the garden.

“Knife in The Shadows,” she said, flinging him his dagger.

He caught it in the air, and with an agile roll, he moved towards her and lunged, just as she had shown him. She parried his blow easily, but he kept slashing at her, again and again. A thrust close to her sides, and another towards her chest, and one more-

The elf rolled to the side just as he was about to dive in for her belly, landing on soundless feet behind him. The crack of her stick on his shoulder blades echoed across the yard. Pain, white and hot, spread along his limbs.

“Too slow,” she said, swinging her stick along her side. “Again.”

Tristan took a deep breath, struggling to keep his composure, and shot her a menacing stare. It was with great difficulty that he resisted the urge to throw his dagger on the ground right there and then and make his way towards the tavern. A good drink would be just what he needed at that moment. He hadn’t had one in days. Ever since returning to Skyhold he had been avoiding going there, in case… Well. In case Dorian was there.

He looked back up towards his window, as if by rote. He wondered idly if Dorian even remembered he existed.

Heir’s voice came like a rude awakening. “I said _again_.”

Tristan grunted as he returned to position. “I heard you the first time,” he grumbled, and leapt towards her.

This time, he managed to get close enough to her to almost touch her sides with the tip of his dagger, before she brought her stick down and cracked it against his wrist.

His dagger flew off his hand, and he growled in pain as he clutched his wrist close to his chest. He turned to her, his teeth bared in a snarl. “I swear to the Maker, if you touch me with that infernal stick again, I’ll-“

“You’re too easily distracted.”

“I’m distracted because you keep hitting me with that thing!”

She smiled, a cold, reserved smile that did not betray an ounce of emotion. “Unless you stop looking up at that window all the time, I’ll continue hitting you. You’re not paying attention. And in a real fight, if you don’t pay attention, you’re dead.”

Tristan grunted, rubbing his wrist, which was red and already starting to swell. “You think I don’t know that?” he spat. “I’ve been in more fights that you probably have!”

Heir scoffed, and the sound of it took Tristan by surprise. He never would have thought that this passionless being was capable of mirth. “You’re strong, Inquisitor. But you’re unruly. You can’t achieve anything unless you’re taught discipline.”

Tristan could feel himself trembling with anger. Biting his tongue, he bent down to pick up his blunt dagger just as a messenger arrived, looking at them both quizzically.

“What is it, Jim?” Tristan asked, pushing his hair away from his face.

The agent bowed his head reverently. “You Worship” he mumbled. “Commander Cullen is expecting you this afternoon in his office to go over the armoury report.”

“Right,” Tristan said breathlessly. He glanced at the sun overhead, which was slowly reaching the center of the sky. “I think that’s as good a time as any to excuse myself.”

Heir fixed him with a hard glare. “Our training is not over.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Tristan retorted, flinging his dagger on the ground and flashing her a smile that was not at all friendly. He picked up his shirt from the ground and pulled it over his head. “Tell the Commander I’ll come see him as soon as I’m ready.”

Jim bowed his head before leaving. “Of course, Your Worship.”

Tristan didn’t even spare a glance at Heir’s sour expression as he swiftly walked away.

The water from his bath pooled around his feet as Tristan got out of the tub. His muscles still ached from that dreadful journey through the Dales, almost a week after he had gotten back. Training with Heir every day had not done much to lighten his mood, and the bruise from the blow on his wrist was slowly turning purple. He swore to give Leliana a piece of his mind when he saw her again as he patted his sore arms down with a towel.

His clothes were clean and folded on his bed, no doubt by one of the many servants and came in and out of his quarters all day, and he dressed himself with slow, languorous movements. He was in no mood to hurry for his meeting with Cullen. He could allow himself a few moments of peace before having to think of all that.

Several reports were on his desk, signed and folded, as he had left them before going to his training. He took his time melting a little of the wax stick over a candle, and sealing each envelope with his signet. When the seals were dry, he placed the letters carefully in his coat pocket, and, with a soft sigh, got up.

He was halfway across the room when his eyes fell on the books on his coffee table. The books that Dorian had helped him find before they left for Val Royeaux.

Dorian.

Tristan almost wished Heir were there with that blasted stick of hers to chase the intrusive thoughts away. His heart tightened when he remembered that fight they had had, all those days before. Dorian’s face so close to his, the anger flashing in his eyes, the pain in his voice. But most of all, Tristan’s own reaction. Or rather, his lack thereof. He couldn’t help but curse himself every time that particular conversation came to mind. And it did come, often and at the most inopportune times, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

Things between them had not been the same after it. They had barely exchanged a few words while travelling. The only times they had talked were in the mornings, when Dorian would emerge from his tent to find Tristan sitting by the fire. Even then, their conversations had been so forced and awkward, that even remembering them made Tristan cringe.

A brief talk about their travelling schedule, or a comment on the weather. A polite smile. A momentary glance before they both looked away. Uncomfortable silence.

After that, Dorian would trail behind on his horse, not sparing so much as a glance in his direction. In the evenings, when they set up camp, he rushed through his dinner as if he couldn’t bear to be in Tristan’s vicinity, and then swiftly retired to his tent to read. Tristan could see the lamp light in his tent flickering until the small hours of the morning, hours that he spent sipping from his flask, staring at the fire. If it weren’t for Sylesta and her apprentice, he would have spent the entire journey in silence.

It wasn’t that he didn’t welcome the silence. After all the meetings in Val Royeaux, the months of running around on missions, those few days felt almost… calm. It would have been fine if his heart didn’t want to plummet every time he was met with Dorian’s reticent smile and the view of his back as he turned around and excused himself from his presence.

It had hurt, just as much as he had thought it would -perhaps more-, not talking to him as they used to. Whenever he happened to see him in the corridors in Skyhold, he had nothing but courteous greetings to offer him before hurrying along. As if they were strangers. Casual acquaintances. As if Tristan were simply a high ranking somebody, and greeting him was just a matter of propriety.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

He shook his head stubbornly, willing the thoughts away. He was a fool. He knew that. All his life, he had done one foolish thing after the other. But he knew, with more certainty than ever, that cutting ties with Dorian was the best option at that point. No; it was the only option. For both of them. No matter how many times he ran the incidents of the past few days in his mind, or how many times he fantasised about having done things differently, having responded differently, having said literally anything that wouldn’t have reduced whatever he had had with Dorian to stiff greetings and awkward exchanges, the situation remained the same.

He had let Dorian come closer to him than anyone else had in years. He didn’t know what it was exactly that drew him to him, but whatever it was, it was nothing but a mad fancy on his part. A foolish daydream, that he had to put an end to. Dorian was much better off without him, and he without Dorian. Things didn’t usually go very well for those who found themselves close to him. Distancing himself was, undoubtedly, the right thing to do.

Then, if it was right, why did it feel so wrong?

“Because it is,” a voice said behind him.

Tristan jumped, his hands instinctively reaching for daggers that were not hanging from his belt. Cole was sitting on his desk, his legs dangling over its edge. His pale face was obscured by the shadow of his wide brim hat.

“Cole,” Tristan breathed, placing his palm over his rapidly beating heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

The boy mumbled something barely audible, his fingers pulling nervously at the frayed edges of his shirt. “Golden, gleaming, glittering to gloss a hidden hurt. Makes you laugh, can’t hate him if he shines so brilliantly. Angry words that hurt like stones, walls crumble, only to be erected again.” He hopped off the desk, drawing closer. Tristan almost took a step back when he extended his hand towards him. “He thinks about this sometimes” he said, touching a spot by the edge of Tristan’s mouth. “It makes him sad.”

Tristan gaped at Cole, struggling to make some sense of the torrent of words that was coming out of his mouth. “Wha- Who are you talking about?”

“He wonders why you haven’t gone to him. Home far away from home, searching, silent, seeking. You’re very much alike.” Cole chewed on his lip and turned to look at the fire in the hearth. He paused for a moment, as if trying to listen to something that Tristan’s ears couldn’t pick up. “Staring into darkness, thoughts heavy, spinning, things you couldn’t say but wish you had, things you said but wish you could take back. His voice helps you drown out the noise.” And without another word, he slowly walked away. He almost seemed to melt into the shadows along the staircase as he descended the steps towards the door.

Tristan stood frozen like a statue for several long moments, staring at where Cole had disappeared. Even as he walked out of his quarters, he was still unsure whether the boy had actually been there, or whether he just imagined it all.

He hadn’t properly stepped through the door, when he almost bumped on Mother Giselle. The woman bowed deeply as soon as she saw him.

“Revered Mother,” he said through tight lips as he returned her bow with a curt nod, and tried to brush past her.

She smiled expectantly as she stepped before him to bar his way. “May I speak with you for a moment, Inquisitor?”

Tristan bristled, straightening up and fixing her with a hard stare. “I’m afraid I’m quite occupied at the moment,” he said, a bit more tartly than he had intended. A chat with a Chantry sister was the last thing he needed that day. “Maybe some other time.”

“It’s regarding one of your companions,” she blurted out as he pushed forward, swerving to the side to get away from her. “The… Tevinter.”

Tristan stopped in his tracks. His brows were furrowed when he turned to face her. “He does have a name, you know.”

His grim tone made the woman step back a little. “Of course, Inquisitor. I meant no offense.” She wrung her hands and regarded him seriously. “Are you familiar with Lord Pavus’s family?”

The unexpected question took Tristan aback. “I have heard of them. I know they’re not on good terms. What is this about, Mother Giselle?”

“I… have been in contact with them.” Before Tristan could challenge her on the reason of her being in contact with Dorian’s family, of all families, she continued. “They communicated to me their son’s estrangement, and they pleaded for my aid. They have asked that a meeting is arranged with a family retainer. Discreetly, if possible.” She emphasized the word in a way that made it clear to Tristan what she thought of his usual way of dealing with problems. “Since you appear to be on good terms with the young man-“, she uttered that bit with a slight wince, as if it pained her physically to acknowledge it, “I was hoping you would take him to this meeting.”

Tristan folded his arms before his chest and frowned at her. He had a good mind to really tell her what he thought of Dorian’s family’s laughable plan, and their even more laughable attempt to include both Mother Giselle _and_ him in it. Glancing around the throne room, and catching the visiting nobles’ and Chantrics’ gazes that were already drifting towards them in curiosity, he quickly decided it was not a wise idea.

He let out a huff and ground his teeth in annoyance. “Mother Giselle” he said, lowering his voice to almost a growl, “I’m afraid I’ll have to remind you that it is not my place -or yours- to deal with someone else’s affairs. Not to mention the possibility of it being some kind of Venatori trap.”

“I… understand your caution, Inquisitor. The thought did cross my mind. In that case, you would be better equipped to deal with this than I. But if it is not, and it really is from Lord Pavus’ family,” she said pleadingly, “would you stand in the way of parents wanting to reunite with their child?”

Anger flared hot in his chest, half choking him. He swallowed many of the more vulgar curses that came to his mind before speaking through tight lips. “I am not aware of the reasons why Lord Pavus decided to leave his ancestral home, but something tells me his parents had something to do with it. Why should they be given a chance to speak with him? If Dorian wanted to reunite with them, they would have written to him directly, don’t you think?” he hissed.

The woman’s eyes widened just a hair, and she opened her mouth to speak, but her words died away when Tristan waved whatever she was going to say away. “Still, you are correct that you wouldn’t be equipped to deal with a Venatori attack. Give me that blasted letter.” He extended his hand to her, gesturing impatiently. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” the woman said, evidently relieved. Reaching in the pocket of her robes, she handed him a letter. “I would suggest you read it carefully. Perhaps it will be illuminating as to their intentions.”

The parchment was thick, smooth and clearly quite expensive, and the writing on the back elegant and flowing. Whatever was in that letter, Tristan did not dare open it without Dorian present. He inspected it gingerly as he made his way towards the library, not even glancing at Mother Giselle before walking away. Dorian needed to see this, the meeting over the armoury reports be damned.

Tristan ascended the stairs to the library, where Dorian usually was. With every step that he climbed, his heart felt heavier and heavier, until he thought it would fall down past his ribcage.

What would he say to him? What should he do? Dorian wanted nothing to do with him, and for good reason. Tristan had behaved like an ass and had pushed him away without offering him the slightest explanation. They had avoided each other meticulously for days. And now he would show up at his desk, holding a letter from people that he possibly loathed?

He tried very hard, but he couldn’t come up with a worse scenario for them to get back on good, or at least speaking, terms.

Dorian was sitting on a plush, velvet armchair, sipping tea from a flowery porcelain cup, and flipping the pages of a thick book that lay across his lap. Upon noticing Tristan’s steps, he glanced up, his features tightening visibly. He let the book fall closed before placing it softly on the desk beside him, and stood up, smoothing his palms over his dark red robe.

“Inquisitor,” he said, bowing his head in formal greeting.

Tristan swallowed thickly, in an effort to dislodge the lump that had suddenly found itself in his throat. Dorian’s heady cologne reached his nostrils, chasing away any coherent thought that might have crossed his mind. His stomach was in knots, and the only thing he could think of doing was to turn around and walk back the way he had come. But even he could, he didn’t think he would ever want to turn his back to him.

Even as Dorian greeted him stiffly, almost ceremoniously, even when there was nothing but cool politeness in his steely grey eyes, Tristan didn’t think he possessed the willpower to tear his gaze away from his.

The letter felt cold and stiff in his hands. His voice, when he spoke, was a muffled croak. “There’s something you need to see.”

Dorian blinked at him and leaned forward only slightly, as if he hadn’t heard him. “I beg pardon?”

Tristan felt his face heating up as he cleared his throat. This was getting worse by the second.

“I… There’s a letter you need to see” Tristan said, rather ominously. No reason to dance around the matter. He was only in danger of embarrassing himself even more.

Dorian looked at him curiously under furrowed brows. He crossed his arms before his chest and titled his head. A small, slightly perceptible smile curled his lips. “Under any other circumstances, I would have asked you whether it is a naughty letter. But knowing how serious our Inquisitor tends to be, I’m only going to ask what makes it so important that you had to deliver it personally and not send it with one of the agents that usually do your bidding.”

The scathing comment stung, but Tristan didn’t let any of his hurt show on his face. His lips were only a little tight when he straightened up and glanced at Dorian levelly. “It’s not just any letter. It’s from your family.”

“My family?” The smug expression on Dorian’s face fell visibly. “Show me this letter” he commanded crisply, letting his arms fall. He snatched the paper from Tristan’s fingers and tore the seal open impatiently. His eyes ran swiftly over the page, the colour on his cheeks becoming brighter as he read on.

“A meeting?” he growled. “My father wrote to you to ask you to trick me into a meeting? Oh, this is so typical! To think that he had the gall to involve you in his pathetic schemes….” He huffed in frustration, the letter crumbling up in his fist. He was clutching it so tightly, his knuckles had gone white. “I bet this “family retainer” he wants me to meet will just club me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter!”

The anger in his voice tore at Tristan. He took a step forward before he could stop himself. “They can’t make you do anything against your will, Dorian. Not while I’m there.”

Dorian gaped at him. His eyes had gone impossibly wide, and for the first time in days, Tristan felt like he was really looking at him, and not through him, as if he had suddenly materialized before him. “You will… come with me?”

Tristan couldn’t tell why his heart thumped so wildly in his chest at the breathiness of his voice. The rotunda was buzzing with activity, but it felt like there was no one there but them. Any and all reservations flew out of his mind as he and Dorian looked at each other, holding their breaths.

“Of course I will,” he whispered, holding his gaze. “We can leave now, today, if you wish.”

Dorian glanced at the letter in his hand. His shoulders relaxed as he let out a sigh. “Thank you,” he whispered. There was some of the familiar warmth in his gaze when he raised his gaze to Tristan’s face. “Meet you at the gates in an hour?

Their journey to Redcliffe village was swift and mostly in silence. Dorian kept his eyes on the road for the most part, looking quite grim and taciturn as he swayed on his saddle. Their horses were both sweating and their mouths frothing by the time they handed the reigns to the stable boy of the Gull and Lantern, the inn Dorian’s father had indicated in the letter.

They ascended the stairs to the room the meeting was to be held, not saying as much as a word to each other. Outside the door, Dorian paused. Producing a small comb from his pouch, he combed his dark curls in place, then smoothed his palms over his dark brown coat.

“Now I’m ready,” he whispered as if to himself, and took a deep breath. He knocked on the door and waited.

The man that opened the door was older than Tristan expected. And his clothes looked much too expensive for a retainer.

“Father,” Dorian growled.

The man returned Dorian’s angry look with a calm and composed one of his own. “Dorian,” he said. He was well in his late-fifties from what Tristan could tell, but his thick mane was just as dark and glossy as Dorian’s.

His dark eyes fell on Tristan, and he bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Inquisitor. I am Magister Halward Pavus, Dorian’s father.”

Before Tristan could open his mouth to respond, Dorian took a small step forward. “Can we skip the pleasantries and get to the point?” he snapped. “This whole story about the retainer was a smokescreen, wasn’t it? You knew I would never agree to come if I knew it were you from the start. And bringing the Inquisitor into this… Quite the elaborate plan, don’t you think?”

“Dorian,” the man pleaded, in an effort to appease him. “I never intended for the Inquisitor to get involved. I only wanted-“

“Why am I not surprised?” Dorian said, cutting him short. “Magister Pavus couldn’t well come to Skyhold himself and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. It would cause quite the stir, I’m sure. So you preferred to lie once again and lure me here. What exactly is it you want, father?”

Magister Pavus gave Tristan a sharp look, then straightened his back before speaking. “Why don’t you come inside?” he offered, gesturing towards his room. “I can explain everything there.”

“I’m quite fine where I am, thank you,” Dorian replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

The two men stood at the opening of the door, glaring at each other. Dorian had no intention of backing down, and from his father’s sombre expression, it didn’t seem like he was any less stubborn.

Clearing his throat, Tristan took a step back. “Perhaps I should leave you to speak with each other in private.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Inquisitor!” Dorian said with a toothy grin, that made him look menacing rather than cheerful. “We’re a warm, happy family. Everyone’s welcome here. Isn’t that right, father?”

Magister Pavus let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “This is how it has always been. I only want to talk to you, Dorian, I’m not here to fight.”

“Talk, then! Tell me how mystified you are by my anger. Of course, you would know nothing about that, since it’s through no fault of your own, yes? Why don’t you tell the Inquisitor what your problem is, so we can have everything out in the open?”

When his father simply stared at him, his lips pinched tight, Dorian turned to face Tristan, uncrossing his arms. “Since my father appears to have lost his tongue all of a sudden, let _me_ tell you what his problem is with me, Inquisitor, and why I left Tevinter, never to return.” He took a sharp breath, and fixed his father with a glare. “I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves.”

Tristan glanced at Dorian, then at his father, whose face was a couple shades paler than a few moments before. A couple that happened to walk down the corridor looked at them curiously as they passed them by.

“I…see,” Tristan said slowly. Magister Pavus’ gaze was on him now, intent and examining. He was no doubt trying to puzzle out Dorian’s relationship to him. Apprehension mixed with anger rushed through him as he returned the man’s scrutinizing stare. Tristan knew that sort of stare very well. It had followed him most of his life, and unless he backed away right that moment, it would be him exchanging harsh words with Magister Pavus instead of Dorian.

He cleared his throat and took a careful step back. “Really, I should probably leave you to-“

Dorian clicked his tongue in irritation. “Let’s just go,” he said and brushed past Tristan, stalking towards the stairwell.

He ignored his father’s plea to stay as he descended the stairs and walked briskly towards the inn’s exit, Tristan at his heel. It was only after they were outside, the golden light of the waning sun catching in his glossy black waves, that he turned around, huffing in exasperation.

“Can you believe him?” he said in a voice trembling with anger. “That’s what he’s always done. Lying, scheming, involving everyone he knows in his pathetic little plans. One would think that with time he might have gotten wiser. But this! This is… It’s just…”

He let his words trail away, rubbing his temples. Tristan watched him as he muttered under his breath, as the line between his eyebrows got deeper. He couldn’t say that he didn’t understand his frustration. Memories of his own quarrels with his mother, and her cold glare that could bore holes through him flashed in his mind. Admittedly, Dorian was taking the whole thing quite well. If it was Tristan in his stead, he didn’t know if he would have been able to keep his composure for so long.

“Dorian,” he said softly, touching his elbow. “If you want us to leave, just say the word.”

Dorian’s eyes shone oddly in the dusk. He shot a glance towards the inn. “I…” he started, then stopped. He wrung his hands before looking at Tristan. “Perhaps we should.”

The pain in his features felt like a punch in the gut. Dorian looked crushed, hurt, helpless. It was all he could do not to pull him in his arms and hold him close, and then have their horses bridled and saddled and ride back to Skyhold at dead speed. He knew that if it had been his mother up there, he would have wanted nothing more than to run away, as fast as he could.

Yet, it wasn’t his mother. And giving Dorian advice based on his own experience with his family would likely make a much bigger mess of things than there already was.

When he spoke, his voice was half chocked with the effort of keeping it level. “I think you should go back up there and speak with him.”

“What?”

Tristan tried to ignore his blazing stare before he spoke. “Don’t leave it like this. You might regret it later.”

“I have… nothing to say to him,” Dorian replied with effort, shaking his head.

“Let him do the talking. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be right here, waiting for you.”

Several slow, awkward moments passed before Dorian nodded reluctantly in agreement. With a deep sigh, he turned around and walked back inside the inn. Tristan watched him go up the stairs before he found an empty seat near the bar, and ordered a glass of brandy. “Make it double,” he told the bartender.

The man turned to leave, but stopped short when Tristan called him back. “Actually, you know what? Just bring the whole bottle.”

The innkeeper shot him an appraising look, but it just slid off Tristan like water off oiled leather. It was going to be a long evening, and he needed something to calm his nerves.

It was about half an hour later that Dorian’s father descended the stairs. Tristan sat up in his chair and watched him, a silent question in his gaze, but the man only nodded his farewell and walked swiftly out the door. Dorian, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. Tristan sank back in his seat, and waited.

An hour later, the inn’s common room was slowly emptying, and Dorian still hadn’t appeared. Tristan was contemplating going up to the room to check whether he was still alive, when he saw him coming down the stairs. He looked worse for wear, his red-rimmed eyes downcast. His face lit up slightly when he saw Tristan watching him from across the room.

“You’re still here,” he said softly as he took the seat next to him. “I thought you would have left.”

“And go where?” Tristan replied, his lips widening in a reserved smile. “I came here with you.”

Dorian let out a quiet laugh and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. Tristan pushed an empty glass towards him, and filled it with brandy. Dorian picked it up, bringing the rim close to his nose and breathing deeply. “Now, that’s just the thing I needed.”

“I would have needed ten of those if I were to meet my mother,” Tristan said, refilling his own glass.

Dorian harrumphed as he took a sip. “Is she as terrifying as my own father?”

“Perhaps a little more,” Tristan said, nodding thoughtfully. “At least your father had the patience to talk with you. If I didn’t have an entire Inquisition behind me, she wouldn’t hesitate clubbing me on the head and dragging me back to Ostwick. Even so, I have my doubts about whether the Inquisition can actually stop her.”

“She definitely sounds intriguing.”

“That’s… one way to put it.”

Dorian laughed and took a sip from his drink, wincing as he swallowed.

Tristan watched him quietly, marking the tightness in his features, the long, elegant fingers tapping on the sides of his glass. He looked terribly strung out.

“Are you alright?”

A soft sigh left his lips. “Not really. But thanks for asking, anyway.” He gulped down the rest of his drink, and stretched for the bottle again. He spoke so softly, Tristan had to strain his ears to hear him over the gurgling sound of the brandy hitting the bottom of the glass. “He says we are alike. Too much pride. Once, I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now, I’m not so certain.”

He took a long draught, then wiped his mouth with his knuckle. “He… asked me to forgive him. I don’t know if I can do it.”

Tristan looked at him, compassion and affection mingling in his chest. He knew what it was like to be unwanted, considered a failure by one’s family. When his own mother had found out that he was not in the least interested in marrying a young girl from a rich, noble family, she had regarded him with cold indifference and thinly veiled contempt. But then again, when did Esme Trevelyan have anything but contempt for everyone around her? From a very young age, he had almost convinced himself that he didn’t care. Almost.

He sipped on his brandy, a question still gnawing at him. “I know this is between you and your father… but what did he do, exactly?”

Dorian stared at the bottom of his glass, his eyes following the amber liquid swirling inside it as he moved it in his hand. “He was the one who taught me to hate blood magic. “The resort of the weak-minded” he would say. Yet when I refused to do what he asked of me, he tried to… _change_ me,” he said, choking on the last word. “He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable. I found out. I left.”

The horror that seeped through Tristan made his stomach lurch. He glanced at Dorian, trying as hard as he could to keep his eyes from widening. It had been painfully evident that there was bad blood between them, but he imagined it would have been an argument, some harsh words and lots of resentment from both sides, but this… This surpassed any and all of his expectations.

He struggled for words, but they all felt stiff and bitter in his mouth. In the end, he settled for the only ones that he could whisper through the impossible tightness in his throat. “I… don’t know what to say.”

Dorian chuckled weakly. “I guess there’s not much to say, is there?” A small smile was painted just on the edges of his lips, as if forgotten from a time when there was a reason for it to be there. He let out a sigh, and it came out sharp and heavy, finally freed from its constraints. “I tried so hard to be perfect. Perfect son, perfect mind, perfect mage. Anything for him. Anything to make him proud. I wouldn’t even try things that I might have been bad at just out of fear of disappointing him. And to think that he would risk a ritual that could have left me a drooling vegetable… it crushed me.”

He paused and glanced at Tristan. It was only a brief movement, a twitch of the eye. He downed the contents of his glass in one gulp and set it back down on the table.

“It’s funny, you know,” he said, picking up the bottle and tipping its mouth over his glass once more. “People always talk about choice. That you can choose how to live your life, how you want to be. Even I believed that. I hated that I couldn’t just go along with what everyone wanted of me. That I couldn’t pull myself together and show the world the face it wanted to see, marry the girl, keep everything unsavoury private and locked away. I often wondered; how bad could my life possibly be? Compared to others, I had pretty much everything. Many would kill to have the opportunities I had. I could have just obeyed my father and lived the rest of my life in luxurious despair. It might have been hard at first. I would have betrayed my ideals, my desires, everything I stood for, but in the end, with time, I would have gotten used to it, no? Isn’t that what life is, after all? Making choices and living with the consequences?”

He fell silent for a long moment. Tristan didn’t think he had ever listened so intently, so attentively to anyone before. In the few moments of quiet, he thought he was able to hear his heart, beating through his chest, through his clothes, through the air between them.

“It was never a matter of choice for me,” Dorian said quietly, his fingers tightening imperceptibly about his glass. “If I did all that, it would have been worse than betraying myself. I would have tied the noose around my neck myself, and I wouldn’t even know it.”

Silence stretched long and heavy between them. The common room was now all but empty, the fire in the hearth reduced to glowing embers, their pulsing light peeking through the small mountain of ashes and the blackened logs. It was odd, really, how brightly they shone amidst the darkness that surrounded them. Tristan gazed at their amber glow for a long while, willing the lump in his throat and the impossible tightness in his heart to a faint, if insistent, irritation. He wondered that he hadn’t noticed it before. At that very moment, as the weak warmth emanating from the fire seeped into his bones and the liquid in his glass reached the bottom, it felt as if it had been there forever.

Dorian gazed at his drink with unseeing eyes, oblivious to everything around him. His shoulders were slumped, his head low. Tristan did not remember ever seeing him so utterly, so devastatingly silent.

His hand moved as if on its own, stretching tentatively towards him, the few inches between them seemingly endless. He hesitated only for half a breath before placing it gently it on his shoulder.

He thought he felt a small shiver pass through Dorian under his fingertips. Dorian looked at him then, really looked at him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I’m so sorry, Dorian.”

The words left his mouth before he could think to stop them, before he could rightly say what they really meant. He didn’t even know whether he was apologising, or sympathising. At that moment, he only knew that these were the words he needed to say to him the most.

Dorian blinked at him, his eyes gliding slowly over Tristan's features. He opened his mouth and closed it again. When he spoke, it was soft and gentle, as if he were speaking to himself. "Don't be. What's done is done. We can only try our best to accept it and move on."

Tristan couldn't tell why his sombre words made his heart thrum with painful longing in his chest. Before he could respond, the innkeeper approached them and bid them goodnight, leaving a bottle of expensive malt whisky at their table, “courtesy of Magister Pavus”.

Gingerly, he let his hand fall from Dorian’s shoulder. Straightening up, Dorian picked up the bottle, examining its label before pulling the cork.

“At least we got something good out of this debacle. It’s no _Aggregio Pavalli_ , but it will have to do,” he said with a bitter smile as he filled their glasses. The whisky was aromatic, and surprisingly strong. Tristan thought his tongue was on fire as he drank it down.

The light from the embers in the hearth danced in Dorian’s glass as he swirled his drink. “Maker knows what you must think of me after that whole display.”

“I don’t think less of you,” Tristan said simply. He was already feeling the effect of the brandy and the whisky he had drunk, but he made no effort to stop himself. He took a sharp breath, and for once he wasn’t feeling as if his tongue was in knots. “More, if possible. Standing up for yourself, walking away from everything you knew, fighting for what’s in your heart… It takes a lot of courage. If that’s not admirable, then I don’t know what is.”

He noticed a strange flicker in Dorian’s eyes when he turned to look at him. His bottom lip was glistening with the remains of his whisky. His hair was only a little out of place, his cheeks slightly flushed.

Memories of a kiss, drunken and ill-timed, but still the softest he had ever received floated in his mind. The feel of velvet, pliant lips retreating under his own, the taste of brandy on his tongue, Dorian’s face so close to his. The sadness in his gaze, the smile to gloss over the hurt. They gazed at each other for what felt like aeons, the vice around Tristan’s heart tightening until he could barely breathe.

With a soft sigh, Dorian tore his eyes away. He picked up the bottle, its glass neck clinking against the rim of his glass. “In any case, let’s drink ourselves into a stupor, shall we? It’s that sort of night,” he said in a cheerful tone that felt much too forced, and filled Tristan’s glass as well. “And I promise I won’t try to kiss you this time.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, but it felt hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :)


	13. A Better Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the first part of a larger chapter that (unsuprisingly) got a little too long. The next chapter should be up really soon! <3

The narrow cobbled streets were bustling with activity at that time of day. People walking aimlessly about, laughing and drinking, the merry music of street musicians in each corner mingling with the lively talk and drifting through the warm, humid air. It was only a little after evening tea, but the celebrations in Ostwick’s Merchant District started from late in the afternoon on Fridays.

Tristan reluctantly made his way through the throngs of people. His head still throbbed from his drinking the previous night -he didn’t even remember falling asleep on that pub’s counter, but when he did wake up, he sorely regretted that decision, and more besides. How he would have loved to get back home, sink in a tub of hot water and let that elfroot and ginger concoction that Nelly, their aging housekeeper, always made for him work its magic. That should have soothed his splitting headache.

Yet, there was no avoiding what he had to do. His mother had been strict in her instructions - _7 o clock at the Cardew Estate, sharp!_ \- and a quick look at his pocket watch let him know that he was already running ten minutes late. He took out his comb as he walked on, smoothing his short fringe in place, and ran his palms over his doublet. It was terribly wrinkled and reeked of ale and smoke, but it would have to do.

A laughing brunette girl wearing a dress with a dangerously low neckline and an entire bottle’s worth of perfume grabbed his hand.

“Now, where do you think you’re going?” she said with a bright smile. “The party hasn’t even started!”

Melody, or Abbie, as was her real name, was one the girls that worked at “The Silver Tankard”, a bar by the shorefront that Tristan visited often enough. She had approached him more than a year back, offering him the night of his life for the right amount of coin, then proceeded to laugh in his face when he had told her, blushing, that he wasn’t in the least interested.

“Let go, Abbie,” Tristan grumbled, trying to get away from her grasp. “I have to go. I’m late.”

“Late? Late for what? A good whipping from your lady mother?” She giggled, pulling him closer to her. Perfect, Tristan thought. Now he would reek of booze, smoke, _and_ cheap perfume. “Come, you can spare one moment to have a drink with an old friend, can’t you?”

Tristan shot a glance at his watch. He was a little late, but surely the hors d’oeuvres wouldn’t have been served yet, and if he was quick…

He rolled his eyes and pushed himself off her. “Fine. But I can’t stay long. And none of those horrible rum shots you ordered last time.”

She flashed him a wide smile.

Forty-five minutes and several glasses of rum later, Tristan was staggering up the slope towards Ostwick’s Upper District, where the Cardew estate was. The sun was already starting to set and from what he could gather from the carriage by the mansion’s entrance, his mother and Tilly would have arrived long before.

The guard at the door twisted his mouth as soon as he saw him, no doubt preparing to send him away for a drunkard, but a quick look at his doublet stopped him. Surely, there weren’t many drunkards that could afford purple Nevarran silk, with thread of silver embroidery on the lapels. The name “Trevelyan”, uttered through tight lips, had the poor man widening his eyes and bowing, muttering excuses and scrambling to swing the gates open.

Tristan sauntered up the wide marble steps to the main entrance. The servants ran to open the doors for him. With faint interest, Tristan noted that none of their servants were elves. At least not the ones that greeted guests. Now, _there_ was a house that tried particularly hard to climb up the social ladder. It was a point of pride for many noble houses in Ostwick not to have elven servants, as they were considered of lower standing than human servants, who, naturally, charged more for their services. Tristan scowled at their deep bows as he walked. What a ridiculous way for someone to flaunt their wealth. And, most importantly, what an utter load of horse crap.

The butler, a tall man, Antivan by the looks of him, with his curly black hair combed in neat waves and set with shiny wax and his thin moustache perfectly groomed, stepped out to greet him with a reverent nod. He paled only a little as soon as his eyes glided discreetly over his wrinkled doublet and the no doubt very obvious dark circles under his eyes, not to mention the smell of rum and ale all over him, but said nothing as he smiled tightly and showed him inside. The gilded doors and furniture were glittering in the light of an elaborate crystal chandelier, and all the door knobs seemed to have been polished to such a degree, that he was sure he would be able to see his own reflection in them. All that glimmer made Tristan’s headache just that little bit worse.

His mother, Tilly, the Lady Cardew and a short girl were sitting in the tea room, no doubt the one reserved for distinguished guests. The girl was quite lovely, admittedly. She had large blue eyes and a plump mouth, and her dark brown waves were pinned up in an elaborate updo. She seemed demure and reserved, her manners impeccable. His mother had made it a point to choose only heirs from the most distinguished houses and of the finest breeding for him to marry. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to disappointing the poor girl, but his mother was a whole different affair.

A young man, no doubt her brother, judging by the similarity in their looks, was sitting next to her, nodding at something Tilly was animatedly saying. The man glanced at him curiously under furrowed brows as soon as he walked in. Tristan could swear that he remembered kissing him, or a bloke that looked just like him, a few months back during the Satinalia celebrations. He might have been mistaken though. He had been so drunk that day, he barely remembered his own name.

Well. Not that it mattered too much at that point.

The butler prepared to announce him to the small company, but Tristan took a step forward and gave them all a sweeping, somewhat comical bow, then straightened up and cleared his throat. “My ladies. Sir. Apologies for my tardiness. I am Tristan Trevelyan, of House Trevelyan, and I bid you a pleasant evening.”

His mother's eyes widened, then narrowed to a thin slit when she saw him. Her lips were pinched so tightly, all the blood was sapped from them. Tilly almost snorted out a laugh, but promptly clapped her hand over her mouth. Lady Cardew and her daughter simply stared at him, their mouths fallen open in a gasp.

The young man was gaping at him now, his eyes wide as saucers as recognition and utter horror flashed in them. “What the-“

A sharp knock on the door woke him bolt upright. A few weak rays of sunshine slithered in through the thin window blinds, illuminating the humble room. His boots were laying where he had kicked them off the previous night before flopping on the bed, too tired and drunk to do anything else. His head was splitting and his eyes took several moments to focus. For a moment, he couldn’t rightly say whether he was in Redcliffe or in one of the rooms at The Silver Tankard in Ostwick.

Another insistent knock made him jolt again. He pressed his palm on his forehead to stabilise his vision, and stood up. Walking to the door, he opened it just a crack and peeked outside.

Dorian’s smiling face greeted him.

“Morning, Inquisitor.”

Shit.

He must have looked an absolute mess. He ran a hand through his tangled heap of hair and opened the door a little wider. Dorian was put together, as always, impeccably dressed and his hair combed to perfection.

“What, uh… what time is it?” Tristan asked. He didn’t even try to smooth his shirt down. He knew it was hopeless.

“Just a little before noon. I thought we could start our journey to Skyhold early. It won’t do us any good to travel after sunset.”

“Oh,” Tristan breathed, then nodded. He was in no mood to travel, but saying no to Dorian was becoming increasingly difficult as of late. “Yes, of course. As you wish.”

Dorian smiled again and turned to leave. “I took the liberty of ordering some breakfast for you. It’s waiting for you downstairs. Be quick about getting ready, or it will get cold.”

Tristan nodded reluctantly, and watched as Dorian sauntered down the corridor and the stairs to the common room. He let the door close softly and leaned on it for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

His mind drifted to that dream before Dorian had knocked on his door. Or rather, a memory disguised as a dream. It had been unusually vivid, and still seemed to linger behind his eyelids.

He wondered how he could have forgotten that disaster of a day. After his mother had dragged him out of the Cardew estate shortly after his appearance, Tilly had laughed and laughed the entire way back to their estate until she was as red in the face as he was. His mother, on the other hand, had gone on an endless tirade, vowing to disinherit him the next time he so much as thought about doing anything that shameful.

What had she called him, again? A _debauched and insolent knave_ , was it?

The memory hurt like a kick in the stomach. He had tried his best to forget moments like these, but somehow they always managed to slither to the surface when he least expected them. All those icy glances and hurtful words, all the blunt reminders that he would never be quite good enough, no matter what he did. If Tilly hadn’t been there, standing up for him and brushing their mother’s insults away, or outright laughing at them, he would have almost believed them. Even so, he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t.

With a sigh, he pushed himself off the door. The last thing he needed at that moment was food, but Dorian wouldn’t give him peace until he finished his plate. In some odd ways, he reminded him of Nelly, his old housekeeper. She would always fuss over him too if he wasn’t eating.

He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it carelessly on the bed. A basin with fresh water, a soap bar and a towel was left just next to it. He washed his face hastily, the cold water making him shiver and restoring some of his vigour. He would need lots of it if he were to travel back to Skyhold that day.

They rode out as soon as Tristan had unenthusiastically finished his bowl of porridge, despite the nasty headache that threatened to split his head in two and almost retching a couple times. Horse-riding was not his activity of choice after a night of heavy drinking, but Dorian insisted that he had had enough of the place, and was ready to return to Skyhold.

Dorian had almost returned to his normal self. It was only the dark circles under his eyes and the tightness in his face that betrayed his haggardness. From his cheerful disposition, one would have thought that they were both just returning from a night out in town.

Tristan was much less cheerful. His allergies had returned in full blast as soon as he had stepped foot in the cursed Hinterlands. He didn’t know what it was about the place that made him sneeze and cough like a sick mabari, but thankfully he had remembered to bring his allergy potions. The journey would have been nigh on unbearable without them.

The sun reflected pink and golden on the still waters of Lake Callenhad when they decided to stop and set camp for the night.

Their humble supper was prepared in relative silence. After that, Dorian took a book out of his bag and was soon too absorbed in his reading to mind Tristan very much.

Tristan watched the flames in the campfire absently for a long while, twisting the ring on his finger. A heavy mist had settled around their camp, covering the ground like a thick blanket. It stuck on his skin and dampened his clothes, making him shiver. He retreated deeper into his dense woollen coat, already missing the warm, comfortable beds at the Gull and Lantern. Biting back most of the grumbling complaints that came to his mind, he fed some more logs into the fire, hoping they weren’t as damp as they looked.

His mood was not much better than it was that morning. That dream he had had still lingered in his memory. It was odd, how much it had affected him that time. Sometimes, he still thought he could hear Tilly’s voice in his ears, her barking laugh or one of her many witty comebacks, coming as if from a great distance. He wondered idly whether he had finally started going mad.

With a sigh that was far too loaded, he glanced inside his satchel and pulled out one of the books he had brought with him. _The History of The Chantry_ , by Brother Genitivi. No better way to take your mind off something unpleasant than thinking about something else, equally as unpleasant or maybe even more. Or so he told himself.

It was with significant reluctance that he started reading the faded letters on the worn parchment. The time for him to make a declaration about the mages was fast approaching and, admittedly, Tristan wasn’t looking forward to it. After reading a library’s worth of books on the subject, he was nowhere closer to making a decision about the mage’s future than he was before starting.

He read for a while, but it wasn’t long before his mind veered off, like it normally did. He glanced at Dorian next to him, the side of his face painted amber by the fire, his eyes that swiftly followed the letters on the page. He seemed entirely engrossed in it, as if everything else around him had stopped existing. Tristan couldn’t help but feel the usual fascination and affection blooming in his chest. If there was a mind sharper than Dorian’s, he truly didn’t know of it.

Dorian’s eyes suddenly left his book to fix themselves on him. “A copper for your thoughts?”

Tristan jolted, only then realising he had been staring. “Nothing.” He glanced about him, trying to come up with a convincing lie. “I… was just wondering what you were reading.”

“ _Essays on Functional Pyromancy_ , by Consus Aurelius. A very interesting read, if rather outdated,” he replied, letting the book fall closed. He eyed the book in Tristan’s lap. “The mage issue still troubling you, I take it?”

Tristan sighed and nodded. “I don’t seem to think of much else these days.”

Dorian nodded. “I’m not surprised. There’s talk all over Thedas about what your decision will be. I can’t imagine what sort of pressure you must be under.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Tristan replied with a frown.

Dorian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You might actually be right about that.”

Tristan blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Well,” he said with a small smile, “I think we can both agree that by now, you probably know all my deepest, darkest secrets, but I don’t actually know that much about you.”

A wave of unease rushed through him. Tristan straightened up where he sat and shot him a sidelong glance. “What would you like to know?”

“Let’s see…” Dorian mused. He tapped his chin as if in thought. “What’s your fondest childhood memory? That usually gets people talking.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s all you want to know?”

“Why, we’re only getting started, Inquisitor. I’d prefer to get the rather innocent questions out of the way before we move on to… spicier ones. Unless you want to jump right to those. I certainly wouldn’t mind,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows, and Tristan could not stop the laughter that bubbled from his lips.

“If you want to know the name of the first person I kissed, you’d be better off just asking something else. Varric seems bent on getting that out of me whenever he sees me being just a little more talkative than usual. Apparently he’s decided to write a book about my life before the Inquisition, and details like these are very popular with his readers.”

Dorian scoffed. “The first person you kissed? Please. I was going to ask about the colour of your underwear.”

Tristan gaped at him, feeling the heat rising up his cheeks. Dorian suddenly seemed to find the look on his face incredibly funny, laughing until there were tears in his eyes.

He took a deep breath, wiping his eye, just as Tristan frowned at him. “Alright, alright. I withdraw the question. Asking what colour knickers the _Herald Inquisitor_ likes to wear would be rather unseemly of me.” His gaze drifted slowly from Tristan’s face to his neck and chest, until they stopped at his hands. He gestured lightly towards it. “Why don’t you tell me the story behind that ring, then? You seem to be very fond of it. In fact, I’ve never seen you without it.” A sly smile curled his full lips. “Is it a family heirloom? Or a gift from a long lost lover?”

The question made him bristle. He gaped at Dorian for a long moment, fumbling for words.

“It’s… a long story,” he finally mumbled, looking away.

Dorian didn’t seem to have caught his unease. “We have all night,” he said smoothly. “There’s even a couple swigs of that whisky left.” He took the bottle out of his bag and handed it to Tristan.

Reluctantly, Tristan pulled out the cork and took a long draught. He winced as the strong liquor burned his throat, and gave the bottle back to Dorian. He glanced at the ring on his finger, tracing his thumb over it. It always calmed him to do that. Such a small movement, silly even, but it always brought him peace.

“It was my twin sister’s,” he said softly.

It could have been the drink. It could have been the allergy potions, that always made him woozy. It could have been the dream he had that morning and that had followed him all the way there, or the way the shadows shifted on Dorian's face with the flames' trembling movement. Whatever it was, it made Tristan’s heart thump in his chest and his tongue suddenly too loose in his mouth.

Dorian looked at him, his smile fading from his lips. “ _’Was?’_ ”

Tristan nodded quietly. The lump that had lodged itself in his throat made it hard to speak. Accepting the bottle from Dorian, he drank a good mouthful of the whisky, hoping it would go away.

Dorian looked regretful, and deeply unsettled. “Forgive me, Inquisitor, I shouldn’t have pried. I do have a way of running my mouth at the most inopportune times-”

“No, no, it’s alright.” Tristan let out a soft sigh. “My sister… she was very dear to me. Ottilie Trevelyan was her name. Tilly for short.” He chuckled under his breath. “Mother hated it when I called her that. She said it sounded rustic and uncouth. Naturally, I never called her anything else.”

Dorian chuckled breathily and accepted the bottle from Tristan’s hand, taking an eager sip. The silence stretched between them, before Dorian spoke again.

“May I ask… how she passed?”

Tristan stared at the fire for a long moment, trying to get his thoughts in order. There was no reason why he should tell him. There was no reason why he should tell anyone. Yet, he couldn’t ignore the impossible weight that had suddenly settled itself upon his chest.

He glanced at Dorian, who was watching him expectantly. Surely there could be no harm in telling him. Not everything, perhaps, but at least enough to get some of that burden off him. If only for a moment.

Giving the ring on his finger a small twist, he let out a soft sigh.

“It’s a rather grim story, I’m afraid,” he said quietly. “It was… discovered that she could use magic when we were eighteen. Quite old, by many accounts. No one really expected it. There had been no mages in the Trevelyan bloodline for decades. She was taken to the Ostwick circle, and had been there for almost five years before the Mage-Templar war broke out. Some mages revolted. The Templars decided to purge those they believed were involved in the uprising. My sister was one of them.”

Dorian’s expression darkened. “Maker…” He took a sip of whisky. “I hardly know what to say. It must have been… very hard for you.”

Tristan’s lips tightened. He didn’t quite remember how long it was since he had spoken about Tilly to anyone. In fact, he didn’t think he ever had. His instincts screamed for him to stop talking, but something inside him snapped. Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out of him in waves.

“After her funeral, I left home. There was nothing there for me anymore. My mother sent her retainers out to drag me back, but I managed to evade them. I roamed aimlessly for months, drinking and gambling everything I had. I didn’t really know what else to do. I felt…hollow. An empty shell of who I used to be.”

He paused to run his fingers through his hair. His face felt incredibly flushed, as if he had run a mile. “I felt… responsible for her death. Like I had failed her. I still do.”

Dorian’s voice was soft and comforting when he spoke. “You didn’t fail her. The Circle and the Templars did. They are the ones responsible for all the chaos.”

Tristan nodded absently, but he was barely listening. Memories rushed to him, half choking him. He still remembered that day when she was taken away, as if it were only yesterday. Standing at the tall arched doorway of the Trevelyan mansion, her face ashen and sunken, her eyes red from crying. He held her tightly, trying his best not to look at the Templars by the gates, their plate armour glinting in the morning sun.

“I’ll get you out,” Tristan whispered in her ear, voice thick with the effort of biting back tears. “I swear. I’ll fix this. I promise.”

She lifted her face and gazed long at him, her expression unreadable in the harsh, grey light of morning. Then, without a word, she slipped her everite ring off her finger and pressed it against his palm.

“Keep it safe,” she muttered under her breath before turning to leave. The Templars towered over her as they led her away to the carriage, the painted red sign of the Circle of Magi glinting like fresh blood against its dark surface.

Tristan’s eyes burned. He rubbed at them angrily, clenching his jaw so hard it hurt. He would not cry in front of Dorian. He would not.

The whisky bottle felt heavy in his hand. He tipped its mouth over his lips and took a long draught. Then another. He could almost feel his head swimming as he gave the bottle back to Dorian.

Dorian took it. He was eyeing him wonderingly, as if seeing him for the first time. “No wonder you hate the Chantry so much,” he said quietly. “I would too, if I were you.”

“I used to hate them a lot more than I do now,” Tristan replied simply. ‘Hate’, of course, was an understatement compared to his actual feelings at the time. What he used to feel was something that he didn’t think there were enough words in any language to describe; blazing hot and all consuming, at the same time that it was bleak and empty and colder than an icy desert. Some days, it had been the only thing capable of getting him out of bed in the mornings, wherever that bed happened to be. In many ways, it was what had kept him alive, all this while.

A small, sad smile widened his lips as he glanced at him. “I’ve never even told you how I found myself at the Conclave.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed in the night. “I admit that it has been a question I’ve been dying to ask. From what I’ve heard, not even Sister Leliana knows exactly how you found yourself there. It is said that you wouldn’t answer no matter how many times she would ask.”

“It might have to do with the fact that it’s one of the more embarrassing stories I have about myself,” Tristan said. “A year or so after what happened to my sister, I got it in my head that I should avenge her somehow. I was so angry with the world, I could set in on fire and laugh while it burned to cinders. I wanted to make those responsible pay. Or perhaps I was struggling to find some sort of meaning in my life. I’m still not entirely sure where I was going with all those revenge fantasies, if I’m being honest.”

He paused to accept the bottle from Dorian and took a large swig. “The Ostwick Circle had been disbanded, but I found out where some of its Templars had gone. One of them told me, after some persuasion, of course, that she had been executed by the Knight Commander of the Circle, even though she had never officially been proven guilty. He also told me that he was going to be at the Conclave.”

Dorian’s eyes widened considerably as he listened to Tristan’s words. “Is that why you travelled all the way to the Temple? T-to find that man?”

Tristan sighed. “Yes. I resolved to go there myself, and unveil his crime in front of Divine Justinia, for all the world to know. Or, if that didn’t work, I would kill him with my own hands, and then fling myself off a cliff or something. And before you ask,” he added, noticing Dorian’s incredulous stare, “yes, I was very, very drunk when I came up with that plan. Honestly, I didn’t think I had very much to live for at that point. But you know the rest of the story. Corypheus ultimately swooped in and killed the bastard for me. I should thank him for that when I next see him, I guess.”

“At least he managed to do _something_ right,” Dorian replied with a warm smile, downing the last of the whisky. A brief silence passed between them, the crackling of the fire being the only sound as they both stared at it, absorbed in their own thoughts.

“For what it’s worth, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, his smooth voice dispelling the quiet and iciness of the night, “I’m glad you didn’t go through with your original plan. The world is a decidedly better place with you in it.”

Tristan gaped at Dorian, too lost for words. Dorian returned his look with one of utter earnestness, as if he had just said the most natural thing in the world. For a moment, Tristan’s first instinct was to scoff and glance away. In all his time as the Herald of Andraste and then as the Inquisitor, he had been used to people flattering him, giving him outrageous compliments, telling him what he wanted to hear. But this, here, the way Dorian looked at him, the way his lips curled ever so slightly upwards, the unmistakeable warmth in his gaze… he seemed like he truly meant it.

Could he, though? Could he truly believe that a world with him was… better?

“I…” he muttered, then paused. All words seemed futile and empty to him. He took a deep breath, hoping that his voice wasn’t trembling.

“Tristan,” he whispered, gazing into Dorian’s eyes, at the amber flames shifting inside them. “Just call me Tristan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi if you fancy! :3
> 
> As always, thank you soooo much for reading! <33


	14. Somewhat Biased

Skyhold’s yard was buzzing with activity. Ascending the stairs to the dais, Tristan felt every step heavier than the last as a wave of indistinct susurrus washed over him. Cullen, Leliana and Josephine were already there, waiting for him. The bright sun reflected on Cullen’s armour and on Josephine’s golden neckpiece, so much so that they were almost blinding. Hoping that he wasn’t squinting too much, he climbed the last few steps and stood tall between them, his back as straight as he could make it.

His eyes drifted over the tightly packed, indistinguishable crowd below. They were all watching him, expectancy and curiosity gleaming in their eyes. The murmurs and whispers gradually died as all faces turned to stare at him.

The parchment in his hands felt heavy and stiff. His speech had been carefully crafted, and he had obsessively rehearsed it in front of the mirror in his quarters for days since returning from the Hinterlands, but now it was different. He felt like even if he tried to speak, none of the words he had prepared would come. He fought the urge to turn around on his heels and run back to his quarters.

Nowhere to go now. A deep breath, and in he went.

They all listened silently as he talked about the Inquisition’s work, and praised them all for their service and their bravery. A mention for those who had fallen in Haven, and a vague promise that their deaths would not be in vain in the battle against Corypheus. A few heads nodded mournfully.

Another breath and a pause to let his words linger. Thedas was waiting to hear about the future of the rebel mages. The Inquisition, Tristan declared, had made its full support of mages across Thedas known. “Now is the time for change,” he said, and his voice rang harsh and wooden in his ears. “Now is the time to address the issues that led us here in the first place.”

Several gasps disrupted the silence when Tristan openly denounced the rule of the Chantry over mages in general, and the rebel mages in particular. New Circles would be founded for the rebel mages that had allied themselves with the Inquisition, and would become places of knowledge and research for mages, overseen by mages. The members of the Circles would be able to research and hone their skills safely, and after their mandatory years of attendance had been fulfilled, they would be free to stay there or lead normal lives in the outside world.

Ignoring the horrified expressions of the Chantry sisters in the crowd, Tristan pressed on, hardly pausing to take a breath.

The Rite of Tranquility, as well as Harrowings, would never be performed in Skyhold or the Circles founded by the Inquisition. Both flawed solutions for problems that were barely understood even by mages today.

"A mage will not become immune to demons by being tossed in the Fade amidst demons, the same as one would not become an expert fighter by being thrown, barely armed, in a pit of wolves. Hundreds, if not thousands of mages have been lost that way, when they didn't have to. This is our chance to find a better answer to the issue of possession, if we all work together." 

Cheers and claps amidst confused glances erupted from the crowd.

Tilly’s face flashed in his mind. He steeled himself before he carried on.

“Fraternisation and family visits will be allowed, as in any other school or university. Magical research will be encouraged and supported, and emphasis will be given to the study and practice of practical and defensive magic, rather than offensive magic. No more will mages be treated like devils, prisoners or weapons of war. Magic is in service of the people of Thedas, not against them.”

More cheers sounded from below. A reluctant voice emerged after the roar from the crowd had quietened. “What will happen with the Templars?”

Tristan’s brows were furrowed as he searched for the man in the crowd that had spoken. His blood sizzled just underneath his skin, but when he spoke his voice was thankfully level. “The future of the Templar Order is still under consideration. The Order and the Chantry will have to answer for their many abuses of power and cases of misconduct against mages and researchers, once the battle against Corypheus is won. For the moment, we must all band together and fight against the common enemy with all of our might.”

When he prepared his speech, he knew that it would not please everyone. The reforms he was proposing were the most drastic that had been undertaken in hundreds of years. The yard erupted in cheers, gasps of surprise and fierce arguments. The Chantrics and the Templars were watching him with narrowed eyes, while mages were either praising his name or arguing amongst themselves. The nobles and dignitaries that had arrived to hear his speech were watching the chaos around them, some of them clinically and dispassionately, while others seemed altogether horrified.

It hardly mattered. What was done, was done. He gazed at the buzzing crowd before him, a vast emptiness spreading inside him. He had been thinking about this matter for weeks, months, entire years. He had tried, time and time again, to imagine what it would be like to play a part in the shaping of the mages' future. And now that it was done, he felt… hollow.

None of what he did would ever bring her back. But he could at least try to make sure that no one else had the same fate she did. Not if he could help it.

Clenching his jaw, Tristan ascended the steps to the throne room, his advisors at his heels.

“Mentioning the Chantry and the Templars may not have been the wisest decision, Inquisitor,” Cullen said in a low voice, falling into step alongside him. “We still need all the support we can get from them.”

Tristan sniffed audibly, not even looking in the Commander’s direction. “I could hardly have evaded a question like that, Cullen. Besides, the Chantry would be displeased no matter what I said. It seems to be their speciality.” He pressed on towards the end of the room, not looking behind him, to avoid any further talk. His heart was still pumping from talking in front of so many people, and he wasn’t certain he would be able to keep his composure if another one of his advisors confronted him.

The feast that followed was a quiet and humble one, organised by Ambassador Josephine for the high ranking members of the Inquisition and the nobles that had attended the speech. Tristan’s stomach was growling by the time the hors d’oeuvres were served. He had been too nervous to eat anything before the speech, so now he downed two spicy cakes one after the other, sighing in relief. He had managed to slip away from all those that were looking for him to congratulate him on his declarations, and had carefully hidden himself in a quiet corner behind a large stone column, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“There he is! The man of the hour. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Since their trip to Redcliffe, he and Dorian had somewhat returned to their usual companionable banter. Some awkwardness still lingered, but Tristan was glad that he could at least speak to him as they used to.

He turned to face him, a half smile already widening his lips. “And here I thought that hiding away was my strong suit. It appears my stealth skills have gotten a bit rusty.”

“So it seems. All this time under the spotlight has grown on you, I wager,” Dorian said, smiling behind the rim of his wine cup. “Skyhold’s buzzing, within and without. Soon the news will spread all over Thedas. I have to admit, you do know how to cause a stir.”

“I’ve learnt from the very best.”

Dorian laughed heartily, his arm resting on his waist. He opened his mouth, no doubt preparing to reply with a witty jab of his own, when heavy bootsteps sounded behind them. “Here comes trouble,” he murmured, taking a step back.

Cassandra stepped between them, eyes blazing. “Inquisitor,” she said. “May I speak with you?”

Tristan straightened up, preparing himself for yet another tirade. “Of course, Cassandra. What is it?”

She eyed Dorian behind her back, who took another step back and turned the other way, sipping on his wine casually, as if oblivious to her rage. “I wish to talk to you about… your proclamations.”

Tristan nodded, with some reserve.

Cassandra took a short breath, glancing at her boots before fixing her dark eyes on his. “Have you _any_ idea what you’ve done?”

Her bluntness took Tristan aback. She had said the words so quietly, it did not even sound as if she was mad, but Tristan knew she was boiling with anger. He crossed his arms before his chest and looked at her coolly. “I know very well what I’ve done. I’ve given this a lot of thought, Seeker. I believe it’s the best way forward.”

Cassandra’s nostrils flared. “By giving the mages full authority? Making the Chantry and the Templars look like they were solely responsible for everything that happened? Is that your idea of the best way forward?”

Tristan bristled at her curt tone. “If the Chantry and the Templars had not been abusing mages for centuries and painting _them_ as the evil ones, the war itself would not have happened in the first place. The Chantry and their propaganda is to blame here. I’ll make sure they stay as far away from the mages as possible.” His voice was low and determined as he uttered the last words. If he so much as raised it a little, he was afraid he might start yelling and never stop.

Cassandra huffed in annoyance, her scowl deepening. “Abolishing the circles will only bring about chaos. People are still wary of mages. They don't even know how to govern themselves!”

“They don't know because the Chantry never let them.”

“And for good reason! Don't you know how dangerous a mage can be when let loose?”

“Almost as dangerous as a Templar or a Seeker when let loose,” he hissed, his voice dripping with vehemence.

Cassandra took a step back as if she had been hit in the stomach. Her eyes were wide as saucers when she looked at him. Her astonishment didn’t last long. Soon, she was rounding up on him, brows knit in fury. “You are a _fool_ if you think that this will work. What’s next? Disbanding the Templars and the Seekers? Making the mages rulers of Thedas? You can't just blow everything up and expect it to work by itself purely because of good intentions!”

“It’s not-“ Tristan started, then stopped. He could argue with her for hours if he let himself, but he wasn’t about to do that. _Allow enough people to think that they can question your decisions and you’ll never make another_ , his mother always said. For all the terrible things she had told him, she did have some sound pieces of advice to offer.

He took a deep breath in an attempt to soothe the waves of irritation rising in his chest. “What’s done is done. There's no going back now. Everyone needs to work together this time otherwise it's all for nothing.”

Cassandra rubbed her temples, huffing like a caged bull. When she looked at him again her eyes could make a forge melt. “Who will stop the mages when they decide to grab at power again, if the only people able to do that are not there anymore? I’ll tell you who,” she growled, bringing her face so close to his their noses almost touched. “The people of Thedas will bleed once more. The farmers, the sheep-herders, the dock workers. Men, women and children, defenceless against the dangers of magic. _They_ will pay, as they always do. Only this time, there won’t be anyone left by the time the mages are done with them. I will _not_ stand for this!”

Tristan’s nails dug deep into his arms as they rested there. He hadn’t realised he was trembling with anger. He forced himself to take a breath and pressed his lips together in a tight line, returning Cassandra’s glare levelly. “Seeker Pentaghast,” he said, lowering his voice so that only she could hear him. “You are still a member of the Inquisition, are you not? Or should I start doubting your loyalty?”

Her gasp was barely audible. “ _What?_ ”

Tristan kept staring at her, determined not to back down. When he didn’t answer, she narrowed her eyes. “How _dare_ you,” she spat. “I was the one who called the Inquisition into existence. Do you think I’m going to abandon it that easily?”

“You called the Inquisition, but _I_ am leading it. You were the one who offered me the title. ‘Wherever you lead us’. _You_ said that. Is that not true for you anymore?”

“Of course it is,” Cassandra retorted indignantly. “That does not mean I will agree with every-“

He cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. “If you still believe it’s true, then act like it. If you don’t like the way things are now, help me make it right. I can only do so much by myself. If I can’t rely on the people around me, then what point is there?”

Tristan’s throat strained with the effort of keeping his voice calm, but he clenched his jaws as tightly as he could. He had promised himself he would not lose his composure, no matter what.

Cassandra blinked, taken aback by his words. “Inquisitor, I… I didn’t…”

“Excuse me, Seeker.” He brushed past her before she could finish her sentence, barely noticing her disgruntled look as he walked away, as far away from her as possible. Faces turned towards him as he stalked away, nodding in greeting and calling his name. He ignored them all. His eyes were burning behind his eyelids, his vision was blurry. He opened the first door he found and closed it hurriedly behind him.

He leaned with his back against the cold stone wall. He could still hear the sound of voices and music on the other side of the door, but it all seemed so far away from him. The stair to the library was empty. He was all alone. Finally.

He let his anger and frustration stream down his face. He had no desire to stop it, no reason. His palms were still balled up in fists at his sides, green light flickering from his left hand. He glanced at it, bleary eyed, as if it belonged to someone else.

Anger bubbled inside him, thick and hot like fresh tar. All he had wanted was to bring about a change that was needed more than anything else. He had vowed long ago that he would bring justice to his sister’s memory somehow, no matter the cost to him. But along the way, it had become so much more than that. It was about transforming the very hearts of the people, creating a world where no other mage would have to go through what Tilly had. Now that he was finally doing it, everyone wanted to rip him apart. How could he ever hope to change a world that was so rigid and unforgiving? And why was he not just letting it burn to the ground, with him in it?

He heard the latch on the door turning, and quickly wiped the tears from his face. It was an effort to assume a serious and unaffected expression when his eyes were still burning. Whoever it was, he would just excuse himself and go up the stairs to the library, right up to Leliana’s office and just hide himself there, away from everything and everyone, until…

His heart returned to its place when he saw Dorian’s face peeking through the door opening, but only barely. He closed it behind him softly and turned to face him, grey eyes searching Tristan’s face. “I couldn’t help but overhear what happened. Are you alright?” he asked, his voice edged with worry.

Tristan huffed, but it sounded more like a half sob. “Of course. Never better.” He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. He must have looked a mess. “Forgive me, I just… I’m not sure what happened back there. I guess it was the nerves from the speech, and Cassandra…” He shook his head and bit the inside of his lip, afraid to say more lest he embarrass himself even more.

Dorian nodded, taking a small, tentative step forward. “I understand. There’s no need to apologise to me. Maker knows how frustrating Seeker Pentaghast can be. She’s almost brought _me_ to tears once or twice, and I didn’t threaten her precious Chantry. Truly!” he insisted with a smile, when Tristan started laughing.

The sound of his laughter echoed eerily along the empty staircase. Tristan sighed heavily, and wiped his eyes again. His smile was now only a memory on his lips.

“Cassandra is only the beginning. There are many who will oppose my decisions, this I know. I never asked for this sort of thing. I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time, yet the weight of the world falls on me. Everyone talks about how bad things are, how much needs to change, but no one wants to do anything about it. I’m aware there might be… personal reasons affecting my judgement, but at least I’m doing _something_. I’m trying to make things better. Curse me for a fool, but I am.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He was weary, so impossibly weary. He felt the sudden urge to just run away from it all.

Dorian’s voice was low and tender, a gentle caress after a painful blow. “What you did was very brave. I don’t say this very often but you are… unlike anyone I have ever met. You bring about change, everywhere you go. Not many people can claim that. Certainly not the ones running their mouths outside this door.”

Tristan peeked at him under half closed lids. “You almost make it sound like you admire me.”

Dorian huffed in mock exasperation. “Very well, you’ve rooted me out. I obviously think you’re incredible. But I might be somewhat… biased.” Dorian was watching him carefully, silvery grey eyes glinting in the amber light of a torch above them. How beautiful were his eyes.

Without thinking, Tristan surged forward. Lips found warm, soft lips. The feel of skin against skin. A small gasp of surprise, a gentle moan in the echoing silence of the stair room. The taste of red wine on his tongue, the sweetness of cinnamon and cloves, and underneath it all, the taste of him.

It was everything he had been hoping for, everything he had been missing. It was soft, and warm, and tender, and it felt _right_. Maker, but it did. All reservations flew out of his mind when their lips locked, all the reasons why he’d been avoiding it, why he’d been running away. At that moment, drunk on the warmth of their shared breath, he regretted every single moment he could have kissed him and didn’t.

At that very moment, he knew; how could something that felt so right ever be wrong?

A moment passed, then another, enough time to wonder whether it was just him, whether he had pushed his luck too far this time. He drew back slightly to look up, lips already aching with the absence of his. But before he could speak, Dorian had leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss of his own.

It was all he needed. With a soft whimper, Tristan clung to him desperately. He kissed him harder, surrendering everything he had, barely stopping to draw breath. He _needed_ , needed to be close to him, closer, as close as possible. Dorian’s arms were on the small of his back, pulling him in, holding nothing back. Tristan felt his breath leaving him when Dorian pushed him up against the wall, his breath hot and ragged on his skin. A sigh escaped his lips as Dorian pulled back, eyes blazing under heavy eyelids.

He brought one hand up to cup Tristan’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip. His eyes followed the movement of his finger with unusual intensity, as if he couldn't quite believe Tristan was there.

“I’ve been dreaming about this, you know,” Dorian whispered. His expression deepened, the sadness that Tristan had seen back then shining through. "I thought..." he hesitated. His eyes fixed themselves on Tristan's, and he let out a short, pained laugh. "I had almost lost hope."

Tristan's heart tightened. He cupped the back of his neck and gently pulled him forward, pressing his forehead to his. "I never wanted to hurt you, Dorian," he whispered, his voice choked. "All I wanted... all I ever wanted-"

Dorian leaned in, pressing a feather kiss to his lips. "It's alright,” he murmured against his mouth. “I understand."

"It's not," Tristan retorted, frowning. "I hurt you. I know I did. I pushed you away and didn’t even try to explain. Just the thought of you being upset, or angry because of me-"

"I’ll admit that there _were_ a few moments that I wanted to smack you on the head with a particularly heavy book. But I don't anymore." Dorian smiled, a small, tender smile. "As if I could stay mad at you for long."

Tristan chuckled. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.”

“It is for me.”

Tristan looked up into his eyes then, expecting them to gleam teasingly. But Dorian’s expression was serious as ever. Without waiting for a response, his arms wound around Tristan’s back, holding him fast as he pressed his mouth to his. A shiver ran through Tristan, at the warmth and the intensity, at the pulsing need with which Dorian held on to him. Blight, it was as if they had both been frozen, the fire inside each other their only chance at life. He let himself be swept away, not quite caring what was going on around him.

A bell rang from outside, announcing the beginning of toasts and speeches for the Inquisition’s work and its future. Tristan almost rolled his eyes as he heard Lady Josephine’s smooth voice thanking everyone for attending, and addressing the more esteemed members of nobility that were present.

“Perhaps we should go back,” Dorian offered reluctantly, pulling away. “People must already be wondering where you are.”

He took a step back, his eyes lingering on Tristan’s lips before he turned away. Tristan’s heart sank as he watched him move further away. The last thing he wanted was for that moment to end. Dorian’s hand was only a hair from the door knob when Tristan caught his arm and drew him back to him.

“I think the Inquisition can stand without me for a few more minutes.”

Dorian smiled against his lips. His fingers wound themselves in his hair, softly caressing his skin, sending shivers down the length of his spine. “We’ll have to explore the truth of this, won’t we now?”

Tristan laughed breathily as he fell back, letting himself be trapped between the stone wall and Dorian’s body once more. “I guess we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaaaay :D
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!
> 
> Thank you sooooo much for reading <3


	15. The Inquisitor's Paramour

The days grew long. Longer than he had imagined possible. Reports that would normally be finished in a few minutes now took hours. The war council meetings became unbearably dull, almost to the point of torture. His mind was fleeting. Cullen would huff in frustration when he entered the war room late, and Leliana was getting more and more impatient with his day dreaming.

“Focus is needed to settle these matters, Inquisitor,” she would say in an icy voice that she reserved only to reprimand him, it seemed.

He blamed lack of sleep.

In truth, Dorian occupied most of his thoughts. His velvet lips. The half-smile when he pulled away. The mark under his right eye. The smell of his cologne that lingered on Tristan’s clothes for hours after they had parted. Oakmoss, sandalwood, and something else, something…

Those moments that they managed to steal away for a hurried kiss, a lingering touch, a smile and a hushed whisper in the shadows of the stair room or late at night in the library after everyone had left, had become his only respite in the fast moving blur that was now his life. Most of the time he felt as if drowning under the pressure of having to be what everyone needed him to be. He was the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, people looked up to him, he had to focus on his work, he had to make decisions that would alter people’s lives every day, he had to…. Yet none of that seemed to matter when he was with him.

Silently, he cursed the mountain of duties that kept him away. The report on the desk in front of him had been forgotten long before. It had something to do with the Civil War in the Dales or other. Apparently, it had spread to the Emerald Graves, and the situation there was becoming more dire by the minute.

Normally, he would be interested in learning about the matter -it always helped to know as much about the state of the war as possible- but today was different. Dorian was in his mind, and his promise to meet him after the clock had struck noon. He gazed at the sun outside his window; it was early, and it hadn’t even reached its peak in the sky yet.

With an impatient sigh he placed his pen next to the ink fountain. He swiftly walked over to his dresser, where a small package wrapped in dark velvet was left. Lady Josephine had very discreetly given it to him during their last meeting, not quite able to hide a small, knowing smile. He had specifically requested something that he barely had use for, after all, and never informed her who exactly it was for.

Carefully, he picked it up and placed it in his coat pocket. A quick peak in the mirror to make sure his hair was in place -he had noticed he had been doing that more as of late-, and he flew down the stairs. He was supposed to meet with Cullen in his office to go over the training of the new recruits, but not before a quick stop by the library.

The throne room was filled with gossiping nobles and chantrics as always, though it seemed to him the talks were much more animated ever since his speech. He normally tried his best to avoid them all, shut his ears so he wouldn't listen in to their conversations, but he couldn't help but notice their stares as he passed, or the abrupt stop to their hushed whispers as soon as they saw him. Their wary looks as they bowed left no doubt that they had all been talking about him. It drove him a little mad to think that his name and everything he did were on everyone’s lips, but he told himself that it was nothing new. It was part and parcel of that job of his. If it could ever be called that.

Suppressing the scowl that threatened to slither to the surface -he had become more aware of that, too- he crossed the floor towards the rotunda. Varric was by his desk, scratching away at a piece of paper. He gave him a warm smile, and Tristan nodded in greeting. It was always pleasant to stop and have a chat with Varric, but now he had other business to attend to.

Very important business.

Dorian was leaning against the railing of the circular rotunda, peering down at the floor beneath him. Solas was working on one of his murals, and Dorian was watching him as he painted.

Tristan stood by the door, concealed in the shadows cast by the eerie light from the tall windows overhead. The dark red coat he was wearing was made of soft velvet, but it looked simple and clean cut, almost austere compared to the other outfits Tristan had seen him in. His hair was combed to perfection as always, though, his raven black curls glinting in the light as he moved, and the rings on his fingers shone as he brushed his thumb over them idly.

He looked serene, his shoulders relaxed, the look on his face dreamy and distracted. It seemed as if he wasn’t watching Solas at all, as if his mind was somewhere else altogether. Perhaps he was thinking of his research, of which Tristan understood so little. Perhaps he was thinking of his home, where it was almost always summer. Perhaps, and that thought felt the oddest to him, perhaps he was thinking of him.

For a long moment, Tristan just watched him, enthralled, as if there was nowhere else he had to be, and nothing else for his gaze to drift to. For a heartbeat, it was as if there was no one else in the world but him. No voices, no troublesome thoughts, no gossiping nobles or reports that needed his attention. Just him.

The calm didn't last very long. The door leading to the battlements swung open with a thud, and heavy bootsteps rang across the rotunda.

Dorian straightened up, blinking as if he had just been awakened, his eyes following the swiftly walking Commander. Tristan snapped out of his reverie too, taking a step into the light. Dorian's eyes flashed and a small smile threatened to widen his lips as soon as he caught sight of him, but a quick glance at Cullen stopped him. Solas's paintbrush froze on the wall as he turned to look at him under furrowed brows. At that moment, Cullen looked like a wild beast that had accidentally stumbled upon a flock of unsuspecting birds.

"Inquisitor," Cullen exclaimed as soon as he saw him. "I was just on my way to find you."

"And I was also on my way to your office, as it happens."

"Good, good,” the Commander said, stopping in front of him. “I thought we could discuss on our way to the training grounds. It will be good for our new recruits to see you taking an interest in our forces." Without missing a beat, he walked on, beckoning him to follow.

Tristan bristled at Cullen’s brusqueness. With a last look over his shoulder at Dorian, he followed swiftly, exciting towards the courtyard.

"I do take interest in our forces," Tristan said quietly to him as soon as they were out of earshot. Even in his own ears he sounded petulant, and he winced at his tone.

Cullen looked at him blankly. Then as if he had understood, he cleared his throat and shot him a sidelong frown. "Of course you do. It's just that... well, you've never come to see them, and I think it could help. It might even solidify their faith in us."

Tristan’s lips tightened in a line as he walked next to Cullen. The man's presence was commanding, and he towered over him. He straightened his back as much as he could, to get just a few more inches out of his height. “I wasn’t aware that their faith was in need of solidification,” he said flatly.

Cullen’s expression became stony, and he didn’t even look at Tristan as he walked down the stairs. “The soldiers’ morale is always at its best when they see their leader caring about them. Besides,” he said, lowering his voice, “after your declarations, there have been reports of deserters from our ranks. Many are afraid that mages will soon be running rampant. There are some amidst our numbers who lost their homes, families and livelihood during the Mage-Templar war. You can’t blame them for fearing the worst.”

“No, but I can blame them for disregarding their duties so easily,” Tristan retorted. “The Inquisition doesn’t have need of people whose allegiance is so flimsy anyway. It’s best if they leave now and save us the trouble later.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Cullen said, nodding thoughtfully. They walked for a while in silence, responding to the greetings and bows around them.

“On the other hand, there have been lots of new recruits too,” Cullen continued, as soon as they were out of earshot. “Mages as well as non-mages. It appears there are many that are sympathetic to your cause. Our cause,” he corrected himself swiftly, clearing his throat.

Tristan scowled ever so slightly at Cullen’s slip of the tongue, but forced himself to let it pass. This was no place or time to pick at words. He couldn’t help himself from delivering a pointed remark, though. “You could have started with that, you know. It always helps to know that there are more people willing to pledge themselves to us.”

“That’s true. It also helps to know that there are many that would much rather slit their own throat than stay with a force that is so supportive of magic. Or yours, if possible.”

Tristan’s eyes widened as he turned to look at Cullen. He had never heard him speak so bluntly, and the Commander of the Inquisition’s Army was known to be very blunt at times. Cullen stopped short and returned his look levelly.

“What is that supposed to mean, Cullen?” Tristan said, eyes narrowing.

“It means,” Cullen replied calmly, quickly scanning the area around them, “that I am concerned for your safety. You should be too. There is no shortage of fanatics in the world. Many will grab at a chance to attack you, simply for going against the Chantry so openly.”

Cullen resumed his brisk walk, avoiding Tristan’s gaze. Tristan followed him, mulling over his words. He didn’t realise they had reached the training grounds until Cullen suddenly stopped short. The yard was full of recruits, men and women, young and old, wooden practice swords and shields in their hands. Some of them looked quite adept with a blade, while others could hardly hold it straight. Regardless of their skills, Cassandra was glaring at all of them, barking commands just as she showcased the correct moves. She really looked as if she was in her element for once.

Cullen glanced around him, surveying the courtyard. He seemed to be weighing everyone, and what threat they could possibly pose. A ball of apprehension settled itself in Tristan’s stomach. Cullen’s words had disturbed him deeply. It was true that when he had made his declarations, he had expected the worst. Allies severing ties with the Inquisition, the Chantry denouncing them completely and spreading their usual propaganda… But a direct attack on him had never crossed his mind.

He felt his scowl deepening as he twisted the ring on his finger, picturing clerics and peasants chasing him with pitchforks and torches. He had become somewhat accustomed to the idea of death, perhaps even a horrible one at some point down the line, but perishing under a horde of the righteous would a very bleak end indeed.

And it wasn’t just the dying part that worried him. He knew to always be on his guard when he was out in the field, but in Skyhold… It had become something of a safe haven for him. It wasn’t perfect or quiet at all times, but he knew he could have some moments of peace there. To think that he should have to guard himself there too made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

He let out a soft sigh. The Inquisitor’s work was never, ever done, it seemed. He glanced at Cullen, who was watching the recruits performing exercises with keen interest. “What do you suggest we do, Cullen?” he said quietly.

Cullen’s expression grew sombre as he cleared his throat again and lowered his voice. “I have some suggestions, although I doubt you’re going to like them.” He paused to look around him before he spoke again. “It would be my advice to have a personal guard, at least when you’re in Skyhold. They will be stationed outside your quarters at all times and will accompany you wherever it is you need to go when you’re here.”

Tristan blinked. “A personal guard? Don’t you think that’s taking it a little too far?”

“Not at all. It is unheard of for the leader of a force, any force, let alone one as large as the Inquisition’s, to move around without a personal guard. If you ask me, we should have done it when you were first appointed Inquisitor. But there didn’t seem to be need of it at the time. Whereas now…”

“Our followers think I’m the chosen of Andraste. That no ill can befall me until I do what Andraste sent me to do. That’s the source of their conviction. If I start walking around with armed guards as if I’m about to get attacked, what message do you think that would send?” Tristan shook his head. “No. That won’t do.”

Cullen let out a sharp exhale. “People having faith in the Inquisition and its leader is one thing. Some may very well think you’re invincible, but we both know you’re not. And there’s many others that know it, too.”

Tristan opened his mouth to interject, but he closed it again as Cassandra announced a brief break for the recruits to catch their breath. They were all panting and sweating, and some looked as if ready to pass out. Tristan almost felt bad for them for a heartbeat. Training under the Seeker was surely one version of hell he wasn’t eager to experience.

A face stood out to him amongst the crowd. A dark haired young man with a bushy black beard and a pale scar along the side of his face smiled brightly at him. His grin didn’t diminish half an inch when he ran to him, and bowed deeply before him.

“My lord!” he exclaimed, his head still lowered reverently.

Tristan stopped short for a moment, rummaging through his brain for the man’s name. He was sure it was something foreign. Nhadem? Nhoden?

“…Nhudem?” he said reluctantly.

The man glanced up at him, surprise evident on his features, his bright smile almost splitting his face in two. “You remember my name!”

“Of course. How could I forget?” Tristan said, offering him a tremulous smile. He was becoming more and more comfortable lying as time went by, it seemed. “How is your training going?”

“Very well, my lord. Thank you, my lord. Seeker Pentaghast says I’ll soon be ready to take up arms.” He straightened up, standing tall before him. His smile faltered for a moment as he took on a serious and solemn expression. “It will be my honour to defend you and the Inquisition, Your Worship.”

Tristan glanced uneasily at Cullen, who just watched the man with a stony expression, as if appraising him. Returning to Nhudem, he cleared his throat and gave him a sharp nod. “That’s… good to hear.”

The man beamed at him and took his hand, lowering his head. “Your blessing, my lord.”

A wave of unease rushed over Tristan at the expectancy in the man’s stance. “I… you’ll be fine without my blessing, I’m sure,” he managed awkwardly before slithering his hand out of Nhudem’s grasp and patting him gingerly on the shoulder.

In his eternal relief, Cassandra shouted for the recruits to gather around her again, and Nhudem hurriedly bowed before him and ran back to his spot, picking up his shield and his sword. Tristan let out a short huff and crossed his arms in front of his chest, tucking his left hand under the folds of his coat.

“It’s always encouraging to see one so eager,” Cullen said, the satisfaction in his voice in direct opposition to the bile threatening to rise up Tristan’s throat. “That man. He’s the son of Rivaini immigrants, but he’s grown up in Ferelden. He’s one of the most capable with sword and bow in his group, and Harrit said he was a decent enough apprentice. Even Cassandra tells me that he’s promising. He could prove very useful. He could even make it to lieutenant one day.”

Tristan watched Nhudem as he went through the forms perfectly, his stance as precise as if he had been doing it for years. “I’m surprised you know so much about him.”

“I would be a poor Commander if I didn’t know the men under me.”

“Even so, there’s knowing some things, and there’s knowing altogether too much. You’re starting to sound more like Leliana by the day.”

Cullen let out a slow, mirthful chuckle. It felt odd to hear such a sound coming from him. “Of all the things one could become, Sister Leliana is certainly one of the better options.”

Tristan nodded gingerly, but couldn’t help a quick glance over his shoulder at the tower where Leliana’s office was situated. He had the oddest feeling he was being watched.

With a barely suppressed sigh, he patted his coat pocket, the wrapped package small and rigid against his chest. The sun was almost in the middle of the sky. _Not long now_ , he reminded himself. His heart fluttered at the thought.

* * *

“Your calculations don’t make sense.”

Dorian lifted his head from the diagram he had been scribbling on a piece of parchment to glance at the source of the distraction. Helisma was standing before him, her face cold and expressionless as she held a pack of papers in her hands. A pack of papers that he had worked on laboriously for the past week and a half.

He leaned back in his chair, lightly placing his elbows on the arm rests. “Oh?” he said, his tone verging on the amused. “And what precisely is it that doesn’t make sense?”

“Your calculations on the spells needed to extinguish the rage demons. They are not making sense.”

Dorian’s temper flared only slightly, but he tried to suppress it. The issue with the demons pouring in from rifts and wreaking havoc all around Thedas had been the center of his research for months, and he had made it a point of pride to find the best way to defeat them with the smallest number of losses from their end. He had pored over those equations endlessly before giving them to her and the other researchers, and he had made absolutely sure every single one of them was correct.

“Didn’t they teach you Brother Gavinus’s theorem in the Circle you were in? Or Mafran’s and Augustus’s arcane models? They tend to be rather necessary in order to understand my equations. In fact, they are necessary to understand any sort of equation. In Tevinter, mages as young as seven are taught them before they even learn to cast.” He gave her a wide, sickly sweet smile. “Perhaps the enchanters here in the South simply forgot to instruct them?”

Helisma didn’t seem to pick up on his sarcasm. She extended the stack to him, her eyes void of any emotion. “I was taught those, yes. All mages in the Circles are taught the basics of magic. My knowledge of them doesn’t make your calculations any less wrong.”

Dorian could feel his annoyance rushing through him as she spoke. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling roughly. His patience was running thin, but snapping at Helisma would be of little help. “Fine. Let me see.”

She placed the papers on his desk, flicking through them as she pointed at this and that equation that was wrong, and could not work with the type of magic he was suggesting. Not once or twice did he have to rein in his irritation in order to explain to her what his research actually meant. Still, she managed to antagonise him on every single thing.

As she drawled on, he silently cursed himself for ever bothering to do anything in that cursed place. The assortment of mages and researchers that had found themselves in Skyhold were hopeless. He marvelled, once again, at the sheer depth of cluelessness that reigned supreme amongst them. How they had managed to survive for so long and not burn themselves to cinders with a single light spell was beyond him.

“Rage demons have high tolerance to spirit magic,” Helisma said matter-of-factly. “How is a spirit spell going to defeat them?”

“If it is combined with frost magic, then it very well could.”

“Then why not attack them with frost magic from the start?”

“Because,” Dorian said, drawing out the syllables so he sounded as if speaking to a particularly dense child, “these demons are no common rage demons. They exhibit tolerance to frost magic, which they shouldn’t. They need something stronger, something more potent. That’s why a different sort of spell must be cast in order to lower their defences. A simple frost glyph with a thread of spirit magic weaved though it will confuse them and disrupt their barriers.”

“And how do you suggest this is done? No mage can cast both at the same time.”

He huffed, snatching the page that Helisma was holding in front of his nose, his carefully prepared diagrams marred by the hasty notes and squiggles she had made on them. “They can if they are trained for it. Maker, do they teach you nothing in those Circles?”

“If there’s something you want to say about the Circles, you’d better say it outright.”

Dorian spun around, feeling his blood rising to his head. The woman standing before him was tall and stately, her grey hair gathered in a bun atop her head. She had a hawk-like nose and her pale blue eyes managed to look hawk-like too, and her mouth seemed to always be pressed in a tight line. Former Second Enchanter Muriel liked him as much as he liked her, which was not at all. It wasn’t the first time he had disagreed on matters of magical research with her and others like her, and frankly, Dorian had had enough of them all sneering at his skills.

“Since you seem to be eavesdropping on every conversation, Enchanter Muriel, then perhaps you would know that I have no qualms about commenting on the Circles and the laughable job they do at teaching mages anything useful,” he said with no small amount of derision. He propped a hand on his waist, eyeing her contemptuously. “Or shall I stop calling you Enchanter? Those titles have become rather redundant now, as you well know.”

“Yes, they have,” the woman said slowly, and her eyes narrowed even more. It was no secret to anyone that she had been very displeased indeed with Trevelyan’s declarations about the mages. And she wasn’t the only one. Dorian noticed a few inquisitive eyes turning their way, but he tried to ignore them.

“Well?” Dorian said, waving impatiently. “Do you have any golden pieces of advice to offer regarding the matter at hand, or can I return to my, may I say, very important and pressing research?”

His sarcasm did have the desired effect on her as opposed to Helisma, he noted with some satisfaction. Her sunken cheeks seemed flushed, and she straightened up so that she was standing almost as tall as he was.

“Young man,” she said, sniffing audibly and staring him down over her beak of a nose, “whatever could I possibly say to help make sense of the blasphemous poppycock your people seem to call magic?”

Dorian feigned shock, the fingers of his left hand splayed onto his chest. “ _My_ people? Did this just become a matter of race? I have to say, I expected accusations such as these to be beneath you. Oh, wait!” he paused, tapping his finger on his chin as if in thought. “No. No, I didn’t. It seems _you people_ never miss a chance to use my heritage as ammunition when you run out of all other arguments. Or am I wrong?” He gestured at the papers on the desk behind him. “Can you look at my research and tell me with absolute certainty that it wouldn’t work? Or is it just the fact that I’m from Tevinter the only reason for your dislike of me?”

The woman opened her mouth to respond, when her eyes opened wide, staring at something behind Dorian’s back. He turned around, curious to see what had made the tiresome old hag shut up for once, when he saw a very annoyed and scowling Trevelyan observing the scene.

“What is going on here?”

Muriel dropped a small curtsy, so small in fact that it could barely be mistaken for a curtsy, and straightened up again. “Your Worship.”

Trevelyan was watching her coolly, his very presence changing the air in the room. He wasn't tall, no taller than Dorian himself, but he was definitely imposing. His dark blue eyes fixed themselves on her, so intently they could bore holes through her. “This doesn’t answer my question.”

The woman glanced at Dorian, unable to completely hide the contempt that hid there. Then, she cleared her throat and looked at Trevelyan levelly. “Lord Pavus and I had a disagreement, Your Worship. It is of purely academic nature.”

“It didn’t sound very academic to me.” Trevelyan’s tone was icy and flat. It sent a chill right through Dorian, even though it wasn’t even directed at him.

An awkward silence spread throughout the rotunda. Even the apprentices and the servants had all stopped what they were doing to gawk at them. If a needle fell right then, Dorian was sure he would be able to hear it.

Muriel’s mouth twisted in a way that made her look as if she were about to be sick. “Apologies, Your Worship.” She dropped her eyes, but her tone did not sound particularly remorseful to Dorian.

“It is not me you should be apologising to.”

The satisfaction of seeing all colour completely drain from the woman’s face almost matched the horror that quickly gripped Dorian. Having Muriel apologise to him in front of everyone at Trevelyan’s behest, as if they were school children caught fighting, was probably the worst that could happen at this point. It would certainly not help his position at all.

He took a small step forward. “Really, Inquisitor, this isn’t necessary-“

Trevelyan held up a hand to silence him, not taking his eyes away from Muriel. Dorian snapped his mouth shut, but couldn’t help grinding his teeth. That infuriating, arrogant git. Who did he even think he was, holding up a hand to him?!

“A personal attack against another member of the Inquisition is a serious offence and will not be tolerated."

Muriel blinked at him. "It- it wasn't an attack, Your Worship. We were simply discussing..."

She let her words trail off as Trevelyan glared at her. He raised his voice ever so slightly, so that everyone in the rotunda could hear him. "Whoever cannot abide by the Inquisition's rules, then perhaps they should consider leaving it.”

Muriel’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open in an expression of wild affront. As shocked as Dorian was with Trevelyan’s words, he couldn’t help a tiny mirthful smile at the look on her face.

“I…I-“ she stammered, looking around her. Slowly, as if it was physically painful to her, she turned around and lowered her head towards Dorian. “Please accept my humble apologies.”

Dorian folded his arms before his chest and shot Trevelyan a sidelong frown. “Apology accepted,” he said through tight jaws. Trevelyan returned his look with a frown of his own. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to box his ears right at that moment!

Muriel curtsied, deeply this time, and turned to leave after Trevelyan’s curt nod. Her back was as straight and rigid as Dorian had ever seen it. Helisma simply stared at them all blankly, still holding his research.

“What shall I do with this?” she asked Dorian.

“Oh, just leave it where it is,” Dorian said, gesturing impatiently. “You’ll have little use of it anyway. I’ll show it to Dagna. She might be able to use it to craft some runes. She seems to understand much more of magic than anyone else here.”

“Do you have some time?” Trevelyan asked quietly, just as Helisma had left. The last thing Dorian wanted was for everyone to see him leaving with him after that display, but he couldn’t well refuse him. His eyes were impossibly dark, his brows knit in concern. Dorian bit his lip and gave him a reserved nod, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. He looked neither left nor right as he followed him down the stairs, studiously avoiding everyone’s gazes, even though he could feel them boring through his back. Really, did these people have nothing better to do than stand around and gawk like dimwits all day?

They crossed the crowded throne room, the stairs and the yard without so much as a word. Then, Trevelyan led him to the door of the Skyhold prisons. He pushed it open and gestured for him to enter first.

As annoyed as he had been with him at the library, Dorian couldn't resist an amused smile as he walked down the long flight of stairs. Trevelyan certainly had a selective memory when it came to his manners.

He looked around the old prison as it slowly came into view. He had never visited the place before -never had to, thank the Maker. The chill and damp permeated the wide room, and the doors of the old prison cells were dangling off their hinges with the centuries of disuse, but there was definitely something eerily charming about the place. The broken floor of the large balcony plunged straight into a waterfall, its roaring waters rushing to the abyss below.

Trevelyan walked ahead of him and sat at the very edge, his legs almost dangling off into the chasm. Dorian approached him and sat gingerly on the cold stone floor, careful not to wrinkle his coat.

“Of all the places I expected you to take me today, I have to say this was the very last.”

“It’s quiet here. No wandering eyes. We should be safe from anyone listening in to every word we say. And you have to admit, this waterfall is quite the sight,” Trevelyan said simply, taking his flask out of his coat pocket. He pulled the cork and gave it to him. 

"Drinking in the middle of the day? Now, that's my idea of fun," Dorian said, accepting the flask and taking a long draught. It was brandy, naturally. Strong and aromatic, its sweetness lingering on his tongue after he had swallowed. He sneaked a glance at Trevelyan, who suddenly looked very thoughtful, his ring glimmering in the soft light as he twisted it on his finger.

“This sort of thing happens often, does it?” Trevelyan said quietly.

"What? The drinking?"

"No. The arguments."

Dorian carefully drank some more brandy before he spoke. “Every now and then. I’ve learned to anticipate it. What I didn’t anticipate,” he said, pausing to take a breath, “was you intervening the way you did.”

Trevelyan turned to look at him, his frown so deep he could see a tiny crease forming between his brows. “You couldn’t possibly expect me to sit back and let them treat you like that.”

“I can take care of myself. I have done so for a very long time. There is no need for you to defend me.”

His heart was racing, and he could feel his pulse in his throat. Trevelyan kept looking at him, straight into him, his lips pressed in a tight line. Curse him, but he could never tell what that man was thinking when he looked at him like that.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he added hastily, in an attempt to smooth the tension over. “It’s simply that… well, it wouldn’t do for people to think that you play favourites. There’s already a lot of talk about me. About… us.”

“What sort of talk?”

His abrupt tone took Dorian aback. When he spoke, he chose his words as carefully as he could. “There’s many who believe that my influence over you is... undue. In fact, some think that I was the one that influenced your decision about the Circles and the Chantry.”

“This is ridiculous,” Trevelyan spat. He looked away, clenching and unclenching his fists. “The decision was mine, and mine alone. Whatever the consequences, I should be the one to bear them. You had nothing to do with it.”

“I know.” Dorian let out a soft sigh and gave him the flask. “You can’t stop people from talking, though. What you can do is let me fight my own battles. There’s no use for you to get tangled in them.”

“You get tangled in my battles. People drag you into them, whether you want it or not. How can I just sit by and let you take the blow?”

“I chose to take the blow. Whatever it is, I can live with it.”

Trevelyan raked a hand through his hair, huffing in irritation. “No. I can’t accept that.”

Dorian watched him take a large sip of brandy, wincing as he swallowed. Affection, warm and soothing, blossomed in his chest. Trevelyan was stubborn as a mule, and infuriatingly rash at times, but Dorian couldn’t help but feel all his earlier irritation dissolving, as if it never was. Trevelyan _cared_ about him. He cared what people thought of him, how people treated him. Even if he had probably made his position among the mages worse, Dorian couldn’t deny that.

He extended a tentative hand towards him and gently cupped his cheek. Trevelyan looked at him wide eyed, his frown instantly melting away as Dorian brushed his thumb over his skin.

“Dorian,” he said, turning his body to face him, his expression suddenly very serious. “I’ll talk to the mages again. I'll make them listen. They should respect you. I’ll name you… First Mage. Or First Enchanter. Or whatever, as long as they stop talking-“

Dorian cut him off with an exasperated sigh. “Oh, just kiss me, you bloody idiot.”

Trevelyan gave him a wide smile as he leaned forward, snaking an arm around his waist. Dorian’s heart thumped in his chest as his lips parted readily under his, and he found himself lost in the impossibly sweet sensation of Trevelyan’s body, flush with his own, its warmth seeping through his clothes. Trevelyan was gentle, and his hands were soft, and he tasted of brandy and honey, and Dorian wanted more, and more, and more.

Trevelyan pulled back, his shaky breath turning into a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about this all day."

“It crossed my mind a few times today, too,” Dorian said, brushing his nose over his. “Only a few, mind you.”

Trevelyan laughed softly, their proximity making the sound reverberate through Dorian. “Liar.”

“Oh, so I’m a liar now, am I?” he replied playfully. “I wouldn’t throw accusations like that around if I were you.”

Trevelyan’s smile was warm and affectionate, that tiny dimple at the corner of his mouth more pronounced than ever as he pulled him into his lap and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. And as if he were made of some very pliable sort of clay, Dorian melted into his arms, letting himself be swept away.

It was an odd feeling, that. As if he was soaring, yet drawn to earth at the same time. The Tevinter in him was telling him that something like that could never last for long, that he could never, _should_ never expect more. Yet a small, selfish, ravenous part of him wanted nothing more but to expect more, to chase every kiss, every touch, every sliver of bliss, everything - while he could.

He gazed at Trevelyan’s face, at his eyes with their ever shifting colours, and that small smile still curling his lips. Trevelyan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny bundle, wrapped in dark velvet cloth, and Dorian looked at him questioningly.

“What’s this, then?”

“Take it. It’s for you.”

Dorian accepted it gingerly, letting his arm fall from around Trevelyan’s neck to unwrap the bundle. His eyes widened when he pulled back the cloth to unveil a small comb, worked in gold and ivory, in a fine leather case.

His mouth felt impossibly dry as he dragged his finger over the comb’s fine teeth and the intricate carvings. It was beautiful, and expertly made, and it must have cost a fortune, and Dorian suddenly felt as if he were drowning.

Trevelyan watched him with increasing alarm as Dorian failed to produce the slightest sound. “Is there something wrong?” he breathed. “Do you not like it?”

Dorian swallowed thickly, trying to work some saliva into his mouth. “I…” he stammered, then stopped as he realised he had no idea what to say. In all his life, he had never received a gift like that, not from someone that he had only kissed a few times. He had often received expensive presents from friends and relatives in Tevinter, but Trevelyan giving him this, then, there, while he still had his arms around him and was so close that Dorian could smell the sweetness and musk of his skin, that was altogether a different affair.

It must be the customs, he thought quickly. Southerners did have some rather unusual customs. Yes, that must be it.

He gave Trevelyan one of his usual wide smiles, just as the knot in his throat made it exceedingly hard to breathe. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? You don’t seem very pleased with it.”

“Oh, I am. It just makes me think.” He eased himself out of Trevelyan’s grasp, who was watching him carefully, his frown deepening. “First, you sweep in to defend my honour. Then you give me this. Should I be on the lookout for any more romantic gestures? Am I _officially_ the Inquisitor’s paramour?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he instantly regretted them. Trevelyan’s frown melted into a look of hurt and confusion. He glanced away momentarily, as if he was searching for the right words. “Is it so bad that I… that I care about you?”

Dorian opened his mouth, then closed it. Unease was spreading quickly through him, cold and invasive. Once again, he had ran his mouth and made a mess of everything. Just as he thought he had dug himself in a hole he could never get out of, Trevelyan spoke, his voice so low it was almost drowned by the noise of the waterfall.

“I know I haven’t always been forward with my affection. But I do care about you, Dorian. Very much.” He fixed his eyes on him, and Dorian suddenly felt his lungs being held in an iron grip. “I am aware that it might be selfish of me, asking that of you. But… would it bother you? Being seen with me? Being the Inquisitor’s… paramour, as you call it?”

Dorian blinked and ran his tongue over his lips. A flush was slowly creeping up his cheeks, but he tried to keep his expression as serious as he could. “It… will certainly send tongues wagging. Not that they aren’t already wagging.”

He paused to take a breath. There were a million things he could say. A million objections, a million reasons why it was a bad idea. He knew it was all a hopeless fancy. That he was swimming in waters far too deep for safety, and that he would end up swept away by the currents, sooner or later. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

Yet with Trevelyan’s gaze on him, he could not bring himself to care about any of that.

“Will it give me more time with you?” he whispered, softly enough that he barely heard himself say it. His treacherous heart beating against his throat made his voice sound odd and strained.

Trevelyan smiled, a slow, reticent smile, made all the more unreadable by the shadows shifting over his features as he moved closer. “If I say yes?”

The rushing waters of the waterfall sounded as if coming from miles away. Dorian couldn’t even feel the cold anymore, not with Trevelyan’s body so close to his. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked a pale blonde strand behind Trevelyan’s ear, his fingers lingering on his skin just a moment longer than perhaps they should.

“Then I suppose being a paramour can’t be all that bad, can it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hozier's NFWMB](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=We-mIWLT5DI) playing in the background ;)
> 
> I wrote a one-shot as part of Fictober2019 of the boys taking some time away and having fun exploring the Hinterlands. Give it a read if you'd fancy! [The Most Troublesome Man In Thedas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20925698) (yep, it's exactly what it sounds like XD)
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come screech at me :3
> 
> As always, thank you sooo much for reading!! xoxoxo


	16. Trust

Cullen’s finger rhythmically tapping on the wooden armrest of his chair, the soft scratching of Josephine’s pen and the shuffling of papers as Leliana sifted through the remaining reports on the war table were the only sounds that disturbed the quiet that had fallen in the war room. A tiny crease formed between Leliana’s brows when she glanced at a thin piece of parchment, wrinkled at the edges and the cheap wax of its seal crumbling between her fingers.

Tristan stretched his arms over his head and cracked his neck, sighing impatiently.

“Well? What does it say?” he asked. He had been in that room, and in that uncomfortable chair, since late morning. To say that he was eager to leave would be an understatement.

“There is a man in the Emerald Graves,” Leliana said smoothly, still reading. “Goes by the name of Fairbanks. He says he has important information for us, in exchange for our help.”

“What sort of information?” Josephine said. She had been scribbling on her tablet, but now her hand had stopped and she was looking curiously at Leliana.

Leliana shook her head, a dark red strand of hair peeking out from beneath her hood with the movement. “He doesn’t say.”

“This is ridiculous,” Cullen cut in. “Why should we put our men in danger for information of doubtful quality or use? If he wants us to lend him our forces, he’d better be more specific in what he’s willing to give back.”

“And it’s not only that. He won’t just speak with anyone. He needs you to go there personally,” Leliana continued, her pale blue eyes focusing on Tristan. They were sparkling with something akin to amusement. “He says he will only talk to the Herald of Andraste.”

Tristan returned her unreadable look with a frown, resting his chin on his fist. “I’ll have to agree with Cullen on this. It is indeed ridiculous. I have better things to do than run around the Dales for a piece of dubious information.”

Leliana sat back in her chair, her eyes still on the letter. Her mouth was twisted slightly in a thoughtful frown. Sometimes, when Tristan looked at her, he could see a beautiful woman, with an inquisitive spirit and a knack for teasing jokes. Others, she would glance at him with those icy blue eyes of hers and would freeze him right to his very core.

At length, she spoke, her voice level and drawn out. “I think we should see what he has to say.”

“Why would we do that?” Cullen replied. “The Inquisitor is needed here. There is much more pressing business to attend to.”

“However cryptic his message is,” Leliana replied, eyeing him under the shadow of her cowl, “we cannot ignore the fact that we know next to nothing about the situation of the civil war in the forests of the Dales. The Inquisition currently holds but one outpost at the outskirts of the forest. There could be demon summonings and assassination plots happening and we wouldn’t even know it. If there’s a chance that this Fairbanks has some information of use,” she said slowly, “I think we should take it.”

Cullen’s back was straight and rigid as he prepared to interject, and Josephine had leaned forward to speak, but something in Leliana’s words made them both pause. They all turned to look at Tristan, awaiting his reaction. He twisted the ring on his finger thoughtfully.

“Your words have some merit, Leliana. I won’t lie.”Leliana’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly at him, but she said nothing as she schooled her features back to placidity. “Perhaps I should indeed go there and judge for myself whether his information is worth anything. We don’t have much to lose at this point.”

Cullen’s expression deepened. “I still believe that it is risky. We should send a dispatch of our men first to scout the area. Going in there completely blind would be unwise.”

“I agree,” Josephine said quickly. “There is no reason to place yourself in unnecessary danger, Your Worship. Your safety is of utmost importance.”

“I know it is,” Tristan replied, his scowl threatening to slither to the surface any minute. “That’s what you keep telling me, at least.”

Josephine gave him a small smile that only barely hid her exasperation, and placed her pen on the paper, ready to write his orders. Tristan nodded with a sigh.

“Very well. Send scouts ahead of us.”

“Excellent, Your Worship.” Her pen made a satisfying scratching noise as she wrote. “And with that, our meeting is adjourned.”

Tristan left the war council room, his head as heavy as it always was after a lengthy meeting. He had been running around the keep all morning. The sun was slowly creeping towards the snowy tops of the Frostback Mountains, and his work still wasn’t done. There were new requisitions that needed his attention, and several Inquisition followers that had requested his audience -he swore, if one more person presented themselves before him to ask him to settle a dispute about goats and chickens he might well lose his bloody mind-, not to mention his own training with Heir.

Try as he might, he couldn’t find a single moment to spare some days.

Running a hand through his hair, he crossed the wide yard towards Ser Morris’s office. The man had repeatedly asked him to inspect the requisitions that had been sent by the officers in the Hinterlands, and Tristan had long before ran out of excuses to avoid it. His office was right next to the training grounds too, and walking past them filled Tristan with a vague sense of unease. Too many people crowded in one place and ready to fall on one knee and swear fealty to him for his liking.

The training grounds were thankfully quiet at this time of day. Cassandra was alone by the sparring dummies, her practice sword cutting through them mercilessly. As soon as she heard him approach, she straightened up, giving him a careful look over.

Tristan stopped short. However much he wanted to ignore her and move on, she was still an important member of the Inquisition. It wouldn’t help to be at odds with her even more than they already were.

He inclined her head to her in greeting, and prepared to continue on his way. But before he could take a step forward, she threw her sword on the ground and approached him.

“Inquisitor,” she said flatly, “I wish to have a word with you.’

Straight to the point. The Seeker certainly wasn’t one to waste words. Tristan straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m listening.” If she knew how to be curt and abrupt, then he knew, too.

She didn’t seem to notice his bluntness as she wrung her hands before her. Tristan glanced at them, then back at her, curiosity stirring within him. He wondered idly what she could possibly have to say to him that made her so uncomfortable.

“There is something that’s been troubling me,” she said slowly. She took a breath, glancing around her before she spoke. “When I was in the order of the Seekers, there were a few high profile cases of Templars and mages going rogue. Something must be done about this.”

“Why aren’t the Seekers looking into it?”

“The order is hardly functioning now. I have written to them repeatedly, but have received no word. I’m not sure what’s happening with the Seekers anymore. Whatever it is, they’ve stopped going after these cases, and these people are dangerous. We need to go after them, or no one will.”

Tristan looked at her for a moment, considering. There were too many things that needed his attention. Another responsibility on top of the mountain of responsibilities he already had was the last thing he wanted. Cassandra returned his look levelly, her dark brown eyes fixed on his. For once, she seemed as if genuinely holding her breath, waiting for his answer.

He was surprised with how little he grumbled when he forced the words out of his mouth. “I can see how important this is to you, Seeker. I’ll look into it.”

A look of relief mingled with surprise blossomed on Cassandra’s face. It seemed as if she had hardly expected him to stop and listen to her, let alone accept. Tristan’s frown deepened only slightly. What kind of man did she think he was?

“That is… good to hear. I will mark the spots where they have been last seen on the map and show it to Sister Leliana. There is one of them in the Western Approach as far as I know. And another one in the Emerald Graves…”

“The Emerald Graves?” Tristan asked, interrupting her. “I will be going there soon. You should join me.”

The edges of her lips quivered with the beginnings of a smile, before her face took on a serious expression once more. “Of course, Inquisitor. It would please me greatly to accompany you.”

Tristan nodded. “Is that all?”

Cassandra straightened up, almost standing at attention. “Yes. I’ll start getting ready for our expedition straight away. Let me know when you would like us to leave.”

He gestured in acknowledgment and walked away towards Ser Morris’s office. As little as he was looking forward to travelling with Cassandra -they always ended up fighting like cats and dogs for some reason- perhaps this would be a chance for their relationship to become less… rocky. Perhaps.

Tristan let out a soft sigh. He fervently wished for the moment that day would finally be over.

“You seem distracted. Is everything alright?”

Dorian pulled back to gaze at him, the lone lamp that was lit overhead casting its trembling light on his face. The library was blissfully empty and quiet for once. Tristan had gone to him as soon as the last report he had signed was placed carefully in its envelope, and the candle on his desk reduced to a melted heap in its holder. Dorian had been at his study as usual, scribbling equations and diagrams on large pieces of smooth parchment, his handwriting elegant and precise even when hasty. Tristan had sat on the plush armchair next to his desk and watched him as he worked, nodding occasionally while Dorian chatted away about this and that magical theory that Tristan had never even heard of, sipping on his drink. He hadn’t missed a moment before taking his hand and pulling him onto his lap after the last apprentice had left, despite his laughing protests.

Tristan gazed back at him now, at the golden light falling on his smooth skin, the shadows moving about its surface. “Yes, everything’s fine,” he said in a tone he hoped was light. “I’m just a little tired.”

With a soft exhale, Dorian pushed a strand of hair behind Tristan’s ear. His fingers traced the curve of his ear, the line of his jaw, his eyes gliding gently over his features. He looked so beautiful and when he looked at him like that, as if he was some strange and fascinating thing. It made his heart flutter in his chest.

“You push yourself too hard,” Dorian said gently. “Some time away from it all would do you good.”

“If only it were that easy,” Tristan sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. “There are so many things that need my attention. I barely have a moment to myself anymore.”

Dorian smoothed his palms along Tristan’s shoulders, slowly working the knots that were there. Tristan closed his eyes and leaned into his touch, humming with relief.

“You know,” Dorian said, “sometimes I can see you going about your business from my spot at the rotunda.”

“Do you? I’ve never noticed.”

Dorian nodded, a sigh escaping his lips. “I could watch you roam around Skyhold all day. Here and there you run, checking in on everyone. Why don’t they come to you, feed you grapes, rub your shoulders?”

Tristan laughed under his breath. “You know, I often wonder about that myself. I could have Leliana feed me grapes while Josephine signs off on all those reports for me so I don’t have to lift a finger. Do you think Cullen would agree to rub my shoulders? Now _there’s_ a pretty picture.” A pinch on his right shoulder made him yelp.

Dorian sniffed in disapproval. “Serves you right.”

Tristan pulled him close, nuzzling his ear. He took a deep breath, inhaling Dorian’s warm and heady scent. “I don’t need Cullen when I have you to do that for me,” he said, placing a kiss on the soft skin of his neck. “And you do it so well…”

“Oh, you’re the sweet talker, aren’t you?” Dorian said, his laughter reverberating in the circular rotunda.

It was a bewitching sound, bright and warm, rich like honeyed wine. Tristan caught his slightly parted lips in a kiss, light and gentle, that still stirred a fire deep within him. He surrendered himself to it, eager for more.

“I can’t wait for some time alone with you,” Dorian whispered, his lips sliding to his ear.

Tristan’s fingers tightened imperceptibly about his waist as a shiver slid down his spine. He swallowed thickly, hoping his voice wasn’t trembling. “I’d love that, too. Though I fear it may be a while until it happens.”

Dorian looked at him quizzically, shifting his body on Tristan’s lap so he was facing him directly. “And why is that?”

“I will be leaving for the Emerald Graves soon. Apparently the civil war has been going worse than we thought. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

A dark shadow passed over Dorian’s face. “I don’t suppose you thought you’d be going without me, did you?”

Tristan blinked at him. “I, uh…” he mumbled. He rummaged through his brain for something to say, some sort of explanation, but no words came. In fact, it hadn’t even crossed his mind to take Dorian with him. It was a risky mission, and they would be walking straight into the middle of what might very well prove to be a trap, or at the very least, a particularly bloody and messy battle.

He shook his head decisively. “It’s too dangerous. We don’t even know who we will be up against.”

“That’s precisely why I should be coming with you!”

“Dorian,” Tristan pleaded, cupping his cheek, “you know I want nothing more than to spend as much time with you as I can. But if there’s an attack while we’re there, or it all turns out to be a trap, I want you nowhere near it. It’s best if you stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we-“

“Stay here, while you’re out there, risking your life and fighting Maker knows who?” Dorian straightened up, swatting Tristan’s hand away from his cheek. His eyes flashed with indignation. “Not a chance.”

“Dorian…”

“You listen to me,” he said, wagging his finger before his face, “I am no damsel in need of protection, and you are no knight in shining armour, so you’d better give up the act. I’m coming, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Tristan let out an exasperated huff and looked away, frowning. He could feel his guts twisting with unease. The last thing he wanted was to place Dorian in danger. Yet deep down he knew Dorian was right. They had gone on almost every mission together, since he had joined the Inquisition. Dorian had held his own in every fight so far, and he and Solas were by far the most skilled mages he knew. Tristan couldn't stop him from coming, simply because he was scared for his safety.

The fact that he could do nothing to deny him didn’t make the ball of apprehension in his stomach any less prominent.

Dorian was watching him, his arms folded before his chest and his brows furrowed in irritation. He looked as if ready to reach out for the nearest book and smack him on the head if he so much as thought of saying no.

“Fine,” he grumbled finally. “You can come.”

“Good,” Dorian said, nodding slowly. “I knew you would come to your senses.” A small smile crossed his lips as he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Tristan’s neck. “Now, what outfits shall I bring with me? I’ve heard the weather there is quite splendid.”

“This is the single worst place I’ve ever been in,” Dorian grumbled as they traipsed through the verdant forest.

Tristan bit back a laugh at his disgusted frown. Cassandra huffed in annoyance, while Varric chuckled under his breath.

“Not what you expected, Sparkler?” He shot him a mirthful smile. “Does nature hold no allure for you?”

Dorian sniffed his disapproval, waving away a fat fly that was buzzing near his face. “If by ‘allure’ you mean the piles of goat manure and the hordes of flying insects, then it definitely holds a lot of that,” he said curtly. “I had my doubts when we were in the Exalted Plains, but now I’m positive; the elves really were given the worst parts of Thedas.”

“I like that it’s so peaceful,” Cassandra replied. “The Dales have seen so much conflict, and yet they’re still beautiful.”

The only response Cassandra received was a groan from Tristan, a disgusted sound from Dorian, and a muffled chuckle from Varric, who seemed entirely too amused with all their grumbling.

The leaves overhead were shifting with the wind, their swiftly moving shadows casting dark shapes on the soft earth. It was an incredibly lush forest, with ancient trees, gurgling streams and scores of wild animals that seemed almost unfamiliar with human presence. At times, even Tristan could appreciate how beautiful it was, looking as if barely touched by civilization, save for the old elven ruins and the scattered Orlesian villas. One would have thought that no man had set foot upon the narrow gravel roads and footpaths in years, had it not been for the unmistakeable proof that war was, indeed, happening all around them. Upturned carriages lay at the side of the roads, their contents long before taken away, no doubt by bandits or the infamous Freemen of the Dales. Worse than that were the remains of bloody skirmishes, the charred earth and the heavy boot prints on the grass marring the serenity of the forest.

Despite the cool breeze and the dense shade provided by the trees, Tristan couldn’t deny sharing a little of Dorian’s exasperation after walking for what felt like hours. Sweat made his shirt cling to his back, and his feet were already killing him inside his tough leather boots. The uneven forest roads were not the ideal terrain for horses, so they had all left their mounts at the last Inquisition camp they had found, much to Tristan’s reluctance.

Scout Lace Harding had given them a map, showing them where Fairbanks’s encampment was supposed to be. It had been hours since they had left the last Inquisition camp, yet it still felt like they were going nowhere. All roads looked the same in that place, and most signs had been swallowed up by nature long before, so any hope of finding their way had been quite slim from the get go.

The crossing that stood before them was a rather small one, with a partially broken statue of a woman holding a bow peeking through the thick foliage.

“I wonder who that is,” Varric said, shielding his eyes from the light.

“Someone that wouldn’t care very much if I sat on their foot, I hope?” Dorian said, plopping on the smooth stone underneath the statue. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and patted his brow with a sigh.

Tristan took the map out of his pocket and glanced at it, tilting his head this way and that, trying to make sense of where they were. A small marking on the map, so small that he had to squint to see it, matched the statue that was right in front of him.

He glanced at the two roads that expanded before them. “I think it’s this way,” he said, pointing north. “It shouldn’t be too far away now.”

Dorian groaned as he stood back up, grumbling under his breath. “Whoever thought it was a good idea to start an encampment here, I’ll never know.”

Cassandra clicked her tongue in frustration. “If you’re going to be complaining all day long, Pavus, perhaps you should stay at the next campsite we find.”

“And rob you all of my shining presence? Perish the thought.” Dorian straightened up, flashing Cassandra a teasing smile. “Oh, just admit it. You would all be bored to death without me.”

“Hey, and what am I here for?” Varric said. “If it weren’t for my stories, the ride here from Skyhold would have been as dull as a wet weekend in Wycome.”

“A wet weekend?” Dorian scoffed as they all started walking. “Any sort of weekend would be dull in Wycombe. Last time I was there it was a bit of a shithole.”

Varric eyed him quizzically for a moment, then gave a short laugh. “It’s a saying, Sparkler. Sometimes I forget how Free Marcher expressions might be lost on anyone that isn’t from the place. But I'll agree with you, Wycombe is definitely a shithole. It couldn’t compare to Kirkwall on its best of days.”

“Kirkwall? You can’t honestly mean that, can you?” Tristan said, shaking his head in disbelief. “As much as I know you love that place, Varric, you’ll have to admit that Ostwick is the superior city. It’s not called the gem of the Free Marches for nothing.”

Varric let out a loud guffaw. “Ostwick? Better than Kirkwall? You must be joking. If those Ostwickers hold their noses any higher, they’ll soon be walking about gazing at the sky. It’s a pretty city, but I’d take Kirkwall any day. You know what they say- you’ll have more fun at a Kirkwall funeral than an Ostwick wedding.”

“It seems you’ve never been to the Merchant District after dark on Satinalia, then,” Tristan said, a mischievous smile on his face. “Now _that’s_ where the fun is.”

Cassandra let out a disgusted sound as she pushed forward, her heavy boots sinking in the overgrown path. “If you’re done arguing about your cities, I’d like to move on. The day isn’t getting any longer.”

Familiar sounds greeted them from afar as they walked on. They were the usual camp sounds; casual conversations, the scraping of ladles on iron pots, the sound of hurried footsteps as chores were being carried out. Soon, they found themselves walking down a small slope into a cavern. Its entrance was so inconspicuous, they would have missed it altogether had Tristan not walked in to take a look.

“Whoever this Fairbanks is, he sure knows how to choose a good camp spot,” Varric said thoughtfully, and Tristan couldn’t help but grudgingly agree.

“That information he’s supposed to give us better be good,” he said curtly. “I hope we haven’t gone through all this trouble for nothing.”

The armed guard at the entrance of the cavern -barely armed and hardly a guard, the faint blonde moustache on his upper lip only having grown a couple years before, at best- stopped them with a sharp look, his hand moving towards his sword hilt. His eyes widened when Tristan told him that he was the Inquisitor, and he muttered something hardly intelligible in Orlesian before disappearing inside the cave.

The people that passed by the entrance all stopped to gawk at them. The camp was crowded, more than Tristan would have thought. Their clothes were practically patchwork, assembled by all sorts of different fabrics and leathers, or anything else they had managed to get their hands on. He was surprised to see a few wearing dressed and coats that might have been expensive and well-made once, their edges now filthy and frayed. Perhaps they had been nobles or wealthy merchants before the war started. Suspicion shone in their eyes as they gazed at them. Not a few grew a couple shades paler when their eyes glided from Cassandra, to Varric, to him, until they settled themselves on Dorian and his staff. That Orlesians were a magic-fearing lot was no secret to anyone in Thedas.

Tristan glared at them all in return and ground his teeth when a tall elven woman stopped short as if frozen, her mouth dropping open. He was sure he heard her praying to the Maker in Orlesian.

“You’re the Inquisitor? The Herald of Andraste?”

Tristan turned to look at the man that had returned with the young guard. “Yes,” he said flatly. “And you must be Fairbanks.”

“That is correct. I have been waiting for you.”

Fairbanks wasn’t old, perhaps only slightly older than Tristan himself, yet the grim expression on his face made him look old beyond his years. His chestnut brown hair was gathered in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his brows furrowed as he folded his arms before his chest.

“And these are your companions, I assume? I rather odd assortment of people, if you don’t mind me saying,” he said. His frown got just that tiny bit deeper when he gave them all a careful look-over.

“I could say the same of _your_ people.”

Fairbanks seemed startled for a moment before regaining his stern composure. “You’ll have to excuse my and my people’s wariness, Herald,” he said, making a soothing gesture, that managed to look sharp even as he intended for it to be appeasing. “Strangers are not usually welcome in these parts. We can never know when we will be attacked, or by whom. Trust is very hard to come by, as you can imagine, and most of my people have suffered greatly. And to see the Herald of Andraste, a Seeker of Truth, a dwarf and a mage, walking about so openly…” His eyes fixed themselves on Dorian and the staff hanging at his back.

Without even thinking, Tristan moved ever so slightly to the side, until he was almost standing in front of Dorian, shielding him from Fairbank’s scrutinizing gaze. “I hear you have information for me?” he asked through tight lips.

Fairbanks’s pale blue eyes snapped back to him. “I do.”

He looked at him intently for a moment, until Tristan could feel his annoyance building up. “Well?” he gestured impatiently. “Are you going to tell me or are we just going to stand here all day?”

“I’ll tell you,” Fairbanks said slowly, carefully, “but I need your help with something first.”

Tristan heard Cassandra huffing behind him. For once, he agreed with her. “I know you do,” Tristan replied. “Name your price, Fairbanks.”

The man’s nostrils flared only slightly at Tristan’s brusque tone. “I believe we can help each other, Herald.” He took a deep breath, glancing around him before he spoke. “Those men that have occupied these forests, the Freemen of the Dales as they call themselves, they are aggressive bastards. They’ve killed a dozen of my men. We’ve tried to fight back but we can’t match their strength. You can.”

Tristan’s scowl got deeper as he glared at Fairbanks. “So you want me to kill them for you.”

“Kill their leaders. The rest should disband after that.”

“What you’re suggesting may be a lot of work, and it’s certainly no simple matter. I will be putting myself and my people in danger.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, mirroring Fairbanks’s stance. “I don’t think a piece of information is worth all that trouble.”

“I assure you that it _is_ worth your trouble. But I can tell you nothing until you agree to help me first.”

Tristan stared long and hard at him. Fairbanks didn’t even flinch, refusing to lower his gaze. It was obvious that the man was unwilling to back down. It was time for tougher measures, it seemed.

“I don’t think this is going to work. Perhaps I should be going. I’ve wasted enough time as it is,” Tristan said sourly, turning around to leave.

Walking away was a gamble and he knew it, but he had always been a gambling man. It wasn’t very often that his bets didn’t pay off. He hadn’t even taken two steps before Fairbanks stopped him.

“Inquisitor,” he said, grabbing his arm. Tristan glanced at him over his shoulder, not bothering to hide his frown. Fairbanks let his arm go, taking a step back.

“Forgive me. I was never any good at bartering. And you drive a hard bargain,” he added, with a small smile. It disappeared as he cleared his throat. “If I give you the information you need, will you consider helping me?”

Tristan gave him a long, considering look. After a sufficient amount of time had passed, he nodded slowly, praying that he wouldn’t regret it.

Fairbanks returned his nod, exhaling softly. “You might think that the Freemen are not your concern, but you would be wrong. By attacking them, you will be dealing a serious blow on your enemy, too.”

“What enemy?” Cassandra said, taking a step forward. She was slightly taller than Fairbanks, and she looked threatening enough in that armour of hers, but he didn’t bat an eyelid. “Speak plainly. We have no time for riddles.”

Fairbanks took a sharp breath before he spoke. “The Freemen are colluding with the Red Templars.”

Silence spread amongst them all. Tristan exchanged a quick glance with Cassandra. Her brows were furrowed, her lips pinched bloodless.

“How do you know that?” she asked slowly.

“We’ve seen them through the woods heading to the Freemen bases, leaving with crates. The Freemen were nothing but a few bandit groups but a few months ago, attacking whatever they could get their hands on. But since the Red Templars appeared, they have started banding together. They must be behind it all. The Freemen’s attacks are not sporadic anymore. They are organized. Targeted.” He let out a short huff. “I don’t know what they are trying to do, but whatever it is, they need to be stopped.”

Tristan mulled over his words, twisting the ring on his finger. If the Red Templars had made it all the way there, that meant Corypheus’s influence had spread far more than they had initially thought. The bastard was spreading all over Thedas like a disease, destroying everything in his path. The infection had to be stopped, and the wound cauterized. Whatever it took.

“Alright,” he said, looking Fairbanks straight in the eye. “I’ll deal with the Freemen.”

The relief on the man’s face was palpable, but he reined it in. “There’s something more,” he said. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “The Freemen are holding some of my people. As far as I know they went in to one of their bases steal supplies, and the Freemen caught them and imprisoned them. They are being led by a woman named Costeau, a former Chantry sister. They’re at the Veridium mine, not far from here. We have tried to recover them, but it’s no use. I hope you’ll find the means to save them, Your Worship.”

Tristan nodded reluctantly. “I’ll do what I can, Fairbanks.”

Fairbanks’s words didn’t leave Tristan’s mind, even after they had left the camp a long way behind. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that overcame him, that feeling of helplessness mingled with seething rage that always gripped him whenever he thought of Corypheus. His plans were obvious in the way they worked, but not in what they were trying to accomplish. Tristan hated that creature with a passion, but most of all he struggled to understand him. Even after so many months of searching, and Leliana’s spies combing through every piece of evidence of his movements they could find, they still knew so little about him. It had been months since Haven, yet they barely knew more than before they started.

Haven. The very thought sent an icy chill down his back, and a flood of rage through his chest. All those people, innocent people, dead, for nothing. He clenched his fists tightly as he walked. If only he had him right there, where he could twist his neck and sink his daggers deep into his flesh, if only he could rip him apart and rid the world of his stench-

“That Fairbanks, huh? Interesting character.”

Varric’s voice stirred him out of his grim thoughts. He was walking beside him, Bianca resting easily over his shoulder.

“There’s… something about him,” Tristan said sullenly. “I don’t know if we can trust him.”

“How so?” Dorian chimed in. He came to walk by Tristan’s other side, using his staff as a walking stick as they traipsed through the overgrown paths. There was a glint of perspiration on his brow, and his cologne tingled his nostrils. His long, elegant fingers were wrapped around the wood of his staff, his velvet skin glowing in the sun. A deep, painful longing gripped Tristan as he gazed at him. At that moment, he would trade everything he had, and more, to simply be alone with him, somewhere far away from all that mess.

Reluctantly, Tristan took his eyes off him and focused on the road ahead. “I’m not sure. I think he’s hiding something.”

“Fairbanks is an unusual name for an Orlesian, I know that much,” Varric said thoughtfully.

“It’s not just that.” Tristan ran a hand through his hair and squinted against the light. “Did you see how he held himself? He stood tall even amongst us. Any commoner would have cowered before the Herald of Andraste and his party. His clothes were worn, but of fine make. He told Harding that he was just a simple man that cared too much about the refugees to leave them on their own. I think there’s more to him than that.”

Varric nodded, rubbing his chin. “He’s an odd one, that’s for sure.”

“You think he’s a noble then?” Dorian said. “The Orlesian nobles I’ve met did not care much about anything beyond their own noses. I would be pleasantly surprised to see anyone of noble descent taking interest in those poor wretches.”

“Perhaps he’s the illegitimate son of some high and mighty lord,” Varric mused. “Perhaps he inherited a fair amount of gold once said lord kicked the bucket, and he’s now making good use of it by helping others. Or maybe he married into nobility, or has a wealthy mistress that funds his little escapades. He’s not a bad-looking fellow. I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to slither into some snooty Orlesian noblewoman's bed.”

“There he goes with the tales again,” Cassandra said, rolling her eyes.

Varric laughed loudly, nudging Cassandra with his elbow. “For someone who says they don’t like my stories, you certainly seem to listen to every single one, Seeker.”

“That’s because you never stop talking,” she spat, her nose wrinkling in annoyance. “And there isn’t much else to distract me here either.”

“But I thought you were fond of the countryside,” Dorian offered with an innocent smile. “Did something happen to change your mind?”

“Yes. I’m surrounded by idiots from all sides,” Cassandra said, letting out a disgusted sound as she walked away from them.

Tristan sneaked a glance at Dorian, a wide mirthful smile painted on his lips. When Dorian caught his eye and winked at him, it was more than he could do to conceal his laughter.

After a while, the road they had followed took an abrupt downward slope, leading to a cave.

“That must be the mine,” Varric whispered, unslinging Bianca from his shoulder at the sound of men talking from within the cavern.

With a wave of his hand, Tristan motioned for them all to be quiet and walk softly. Whoever was in that cave, the last thing Tristan wanted was to alert him to their presence.

They had only taken a couple steps when Dorian paused, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Tristan stopped short, turning around to look at him. His eyes were pressed together tightly, and he suddenly seemed unable to take a step.

“Dorian,” he breathed as softly as he could, reaching out to him. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

Dorian took a deep breath. He blinked a few times and nodded towards the mine. “There’s something going on in there. I can feel it. It feels like… like red lyrium.”

Tristan glanced at Varric over his shoulder. The dwarf’s eyes were wide, and he seemed a couple shades paler than he had a moment before. He approached them gingerly, stepping on quiet feet.

“If there’s red lyrium here, then that means Fairbanks was right. The Red Templars are here, and they probably have been for far longer than he thought. Red lyrium takes time to mine. It’s probably been their base of operations for quite a while.”

Tristan’s stomach twisted in knots. He couldn’t feel the lyrium from so far away, yet looking at Dorian, he knew that that must be it. They had only encountered the stuff once before, in a cave in the Hinterlands, and the result had not been much different. Even though Dorian had stayed away from it, he had still looked as if he was about to retch any minute.

“Are you sure you want to come with?” Tristan said reluctantly. “You could stay back. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Dorian shook his head vigorously. “I’m alright. It’s just a dizzy spell. I’ll get over it.” Tristan didn’t take his eyes off him, his brows knit in concern, but Dorian waved his worries away. “I’ll be _fine_. Lead the way.”

With a sharp exhale that did nothing to get rid of the tension that had settled itself in his stomach, Tristan walked on, carefully treading along the narrow path. He didn’t miss Cassandra’s wary looks his way as he did so.

Hidden in the shadows just outside the cave, Tristan could see several armed men, and a tall woman in plate armour sitting on an upturned crate. They all seemed worse for wear, their uniforms frayed from time and use, but the woman’s armour looked freshly cleaned and shined. Her shield, the gilding on it amongst the most extravagant Tristan had ever seen, was placed right beside her, glinting in the sun slithering in through the cracks on the ceiling of the cave. She must have been the woman Fairbanks told them about, Sister Costeau.

As silently as he could, Tristan turned around, motioning to Cassandra. The seasoned warrior did not need more than a few hand signals to understand his plan of attack. She let out a huff, like a bull ready to charge, and ran ahead, sliding her sword out of her scabbard.

The din of steel crashing against steel echoed in the small cavern. Tristan was unsheathing his daggers when the blonde haired Orlesian woman pushed back Cassandra’s attack, her eyes wide in shock. She wasn’t even wearing her helmet, and her golden curls bounced around her face as she deflected Cassandra’s barrage of blows, stepping backwards.

A fireball flew past him with a loud whoosh, crashing against an unfortunate soldier. The man screamed as the flames consumed him, clutching at his face and rolling on the ground. The other men around him stared in horror as he writhed, their hands still hovering over their sword handles. They were so shocked, they barely even reacted when Tristan ran his blades across his throat, ending his misery.

Varric had positioned himself on a tall crate, safely away from the din of battle, as he picked apart the Freemen with his bow. Cassandra’s attacks had their commander taking cautious steps back, yet the look of determination that had now replaced her surprise proved that she wouldn’t back down so easily.

A loud grunt sounded behind Tristan, and he rolled away before a hammer stroke the cave wall behind him. He turned around only to see an ox of a man pursuing him, his war hammer gripped so tightly, his knuckles were white. His eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was twisted with rage. He raised his hammer again, ready to swing, cursing in Orlesian.

Tristan leapt away, the giant hammer cutting through the air right beside him. Before the man could lift his weapon to attack again, Tristan rolled behind him, plunging his daggers as deep as he could through the gaps in his armour. The man growled in pain and staggered back. Blood was slowly seeping through his clothes when he turned to face him.

“ _Fils de pute!_ ” he yelled. “We won't let you take what is ours!”

Tristan did not even stop to think about what the man was talking about -what was _theirs_ , exactly?- , slashing at him with his blades instead. His daggers were well coated with paralysing poison, and sure enough, the man’s steps became slower and more dragged with every second that passed. It wasn’t long before he had fallen to his knees, swollen tongue lolling out of his slack mouth, face pressed down on the earth.

The poison Tristan had used was a fast acting one. When he sank his blade at the back of the man’s neck, cutting through his spinal cord, he considered it a mercy.

The small cave had swiftly been turned into a bloody battlefield, with Cassandra fighting hard against Sister Costeau, Dorian’s spell burning and weakening the soldiers and Varric picking apart anyone that was left with his bow. It wasn’t long before the Freemen band was reduced to a couple men, scrambling to get away, Varric’s arrows cutting through the air past them as they fled.

Sister Costeau was the only one left standing. The woman was a fearsome warrior, matching Cassandra blow for blow. Their exchanges were so swift, they even seemed choreographed, Cassandra dancing around her, her steel blade swishing as she slashed. The other woman held a tight defence, although she was getting weary, her movements not quite as sharp and precise as they had been.

Tristan watched Cassandra’s merciless attacks in quiet fascination, gripping his daggers tightly. His eyes were pealed for an opening, any opening, that would allow him to sweep in and cut the woman down, but there was none. She was too well trained, and too agile, even in her weariness, to allow for him to intervene.

Varric grumbled beside him, fitting an arrow through Bianca. “This is gonna hurt,” he mumbled silently, bringing his bow to his eyes.

He struggled visibly to get the right angle. The women were barely stopping to take breath, so bent were they on ending each other. With a soft exhale, Varric moved his finger to the trigger, and pulled.

His arrow cut through the air with a satisfying hiss, landing on the woman’s forehead with a wet, crunching sound. Her blonde curls glinted in the sun as her head swung back with the force of the blow, her eyes staring right above her as she fell backwards. Her body was limp and motionless when it hit the ground.

Cassandra spun around, glaring at Varric. “Why did you do that? I could have taken her!”

“I know you could,” Varric said, slinging Bianca over his shoulder. “I thought I would end her misery a little sooner.”

Cassandra’s nostrils flared, and her lips were pressed in a tight line as she exhaled. Her short dark brown fringe was stuck to the sweat on her forehead, and her chest rose and fell swiftly under her armour with her panting breaths. She slid her sword inside its scabbard.

“She was an admirable foe,” Cassandra said solemnly. “I wonder what made those people abandon their duty to pursue this war of their own.”

“I guess we’ll never know now,” Dorian replied flatly, leaning on his staff. He still looked pale and tired, as if he was about to be sick.

Tristan sheathed his blades and swiftly walked over to him. Dorian’s eyes followed him across the room, as if he was the only one there. When he approached him, Tristan brought his hand up, touching his forehead with the back of his hand. “Do you feel ill?” he said, checking his temperature.

Dorian shook his head and waved his hand away. “I’m alright. How many times do I have to say it?”

His tone cut through Tristan, more so because he sounded breathless rather than curt. A quick glance around the cave made him aware that there was much more red lyrium in its interior, the glowing rock pulsating with heat as it crawled along the walls.

He turned to Dorian, lowering his voice. “This place is not good for you. You’d better wait outside.”

Before Dorian could respond, a voice echoed behind them, from within the bowels of the mine.

“Help us! Please!”

Tristan, Cassandra and Varric exchanged a wary look.

“Those must be the survivors Fairbanks was talking about,” Varric said.

Tristan nodded and motioned for Cassandra and Varric to go in. “See if you can get them out. I’ll be there in a moment.”

When the two of them were safely out of earshot, Tristan returned to Dorian. Without a word, Tristan took his hand, leading him out of the cave. Thankfully, he brought no resistance. Tristan even felt his fingers tightening imperceptibly about his as they walked, away from that sickening place, with the lyrium glimmering all around them.

He led him to a wide, smooth stone under a tree outside the cave, safely away from the infernal stuff. “Sit.”

Dorian turned to look at him, arching his eyebrow. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

“I know you aren’t. Just sit. Please?”

With a sharp huff, Dorian obeyed, sitting down under the cool shade of the tall tree. Tristan reached inside his pocket for his water flask and gave it to him. Dorian shot him a frown as he accepted it and pulled out the cork.

“Is that how you’re going to be acting now? Like a worrisome Chantry sister?”

“I think so, yes. You’re not the only one that gets to fuss over me anymore,” Tristan told him with a wry smile.

Dorian chuckled softly as he tipped the flask over his lips, drinking eagerly. When he had had his fill, he wiped his lips with his knuckle and gave it back to Tristan, exhaling softly.

“That thing,” he said, looking towards the cave entrance, his shoulders shuddering slightly. “It’s positively evil. It makes my skin crawl whenever I’m around it, and my head feels like it’s about to burst.”

Tristan’s chest tightened uncomfortably with concern at his words. He sat next to him with a sigh. “Are you sure you don’t want to head back to the camp? Varric, Cassandra and I will be alright.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not leaving you alone. This place is infested with those Freemen. And they’re not a friendly lot, in case you haven’t noticed.” He shook his head. “You need a mage with you. You know that.”

“I need you to be safe more than I need your magic, Dorian.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation. “I have to say, I never expected you to fret so much about my safety. It’s starting to get a bit stale.”

“Is that so?”

Tristan met his defiant look with a cool and placid one of his own. They stared at each other for several long moments, before Dorian’s irritation melted in a smile. Tristan couldn’t quite help the laughter that bubbled from his lips.

Dorian caught him by the lapels of his leather armour and pulled him close, his mouth only a hair away from Tristan’s. “Whatever did I see in you, hm?”

“My wit and charm, perhaps?”

He tilted his head, gazing at him as if in thought. “No. Not quite. You haven’t got enough of it, you see.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “Ass.”

“Well, you do have a fair bit of _that_ ,” Dorian said with a mirthful smile, pulling him in for a kiss.

Before their lips could touch, Cassandra’s voice came from inside the cave, calling him in.

Tristan let out a sigh and reluctantly pulled away from Dorian. “Stay here,” he told him, standing up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Cassandra was at the back of the cave with Varric, and several people were standing around her. They were filthy, their clothes tattered and they themselves worse for wear. They all looked at him wide eyed as he approached.

“Well?” he asked, glancing around him. “What happened here?”

“These are the people from Fairbanks’s camp that were brought and imprisoned here.”

A short woman with hair the colour of darkened leather and her skin a pale and sickly yellow stepped forward.

“I am Gertrude,” she said in a heavy Orlesian accent. “Is it true what your companions say? Are you the Herald of Andraste?”

Tristan nodded, and the woman let out a sigh of relief. “We thought Fairbanks had given us up for dead. He doesn’t have the power to fight back the Freemen. To think that he would ask you for help…” Her large brown eyes looked heavy and moist when she looked at him. “Thank you for rescuing us. I don’t know how much longer we would have been able to endure.”

There was an expression of deep sympathy on Cassandra’s face as she looked at the woman and the other refugees. Tristan didn’t think you would ever see so much softness in her features. Her voice was low and gentle when she spoke. “The Freemen. Did they torture you? For… information?”

Gertrude’s lips pressed momentarily in a thin line, and her gaze became very bleak. “Some of us, yes. But… they didn’t seem to care very much about the information we had to give them. The Red Templars though…”

She hesitated for a long moment, until Tristan gestured for her to continue. They had wasted enough time as it is, and standing amongst the red lyrium nodes for so long was starting to make him uneasy.

Gertrude shook her head only slightly, as if giving herself courage. “The Red Templars were the worst. They forced us to mine that red crystal, all day long until we couldn’t take anymore. They even took some of our people and-and fed them that when they protested,” she said, pointing to the red lyrium. “They forced that vile thing down their throats, right in front of us. There was nothing we could do.”

“Well, shit,” Varric said, shaking his head.

“And that’s not even the worst of it. They took two of our people away somewhere, and never brought them back. My cousin, Jacques, was among them. No one knows what happened to them. It’s been three days now.” Her voice broke slightly as she spoke the last words. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and gave them a pleading look. “You have to save them. Please.”

Tristan’s stomach twisted in knots with the quiver in her voice and the helpless expressions on the other refugees’ faces. He brushed his knuckle over his ring in an attempt to calm his nerves somewhat. Their gazes on him felt impossibly heavy all of a sudden. Whatever could he possibly do to save all of them?

“We’ll… see what we can do,” he offered with reserve.

Gertrude gave him a decisive nod and straightened back up. “That is all we ask, Herald.”

“There’s something else, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, giving Gertrude a sympathetic nod. “Gertrude here was telling me that the woman we killed was indeed Sister Costeau, one of the leaders of the Freemen. They were stationed here to mine the red lyrium, while the Red Templars roamed the Emerald Graves. One of their other strongholds is an abandoned mansion not far from here. But it seems that they have been having some internal issues of their own.”

“It’s true,” Gertrude said, nodding vigorously. “One of the Freemen leaders has locked himself up in the mansion and is not letting anyone in. A band of Red Templars passed through here a few days ago on their way there. There’s been no sight of them since.”

“Internal strife? Now, that’s what I like to hear,” Varric chimed in. “We could use it to our advantage.”

Tristan didn’t reply as he kept twisting his ring, deep in thought. Attacking the mansion would be their best bet in dealing the Freemen a fatal blow, and possibly getting information about the Red Templars’ movements as well. It was risky, and would probably bring them face to face with what could be hordes of red lyrium-crazed enemies, thirsty for blood, but it didn’t seem like they would get a better chance at dismantling the Freemen any time soon.

He glanced towards the entrance of the cave, beyond which Dorian sat. His mouth felt bitter and dry at the thought of taking him there, but if he so much as suggested that he get back to the camp again, Dorian would certainly have his hide that time.

He let out a heavy sigh as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Alright,” he said grimly. “Let’s do it. Let’s get those bastards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beloved friend [Tessa1972](https://tessa1972.tumblr.com/) commissioned an absolutely STUNNING drawing of Tristan and Dorian and I'm in tears!! Check it out [here](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/post/188609978930/my-divine-darling-friend-tessa1972-whom-i-love) :D
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi :3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	17. Choice

The trek to Villa Maurel was mostly in silence. The sun shone glaringly overhead, casting a golden glow on the leaves stirring with the breeze and the soft grass that sank under their boots. The birds were twittering above them in an incessant tirade, and Tristan was growing more and more agitated as they moved closer.

He wasn’t worried about himself. Not really. Sneaking glances at Dorian, he felt anxiety hardening solid in his stomach. It was too late now to ask him to go back to camp, and it would be unfair of him to ask him to stay away. He had agreed to let him come, after all. Damn him, but he had.

Tristan cursed silently as he walked along. It wasn’t like him to feel this way. He was usually the one to charge head first into battle, often against his better judgement. Being in danger didn’t frighten him. Admittedly, he had even been known to seek it at times. Yet now, he caught himself surveying the space around them, checking for any signs of the enemy, coming up with plans of escape or attack on the spot in case they were ambushed. Anticipation of the worst settled on him like a dark and heavy cloud, until he could think of little else. If only he could have convinced Dorian to stay behind, if only he could come up with a reason to return to Skyhold and leave this place as it was…

He let out a soft sigh. There’s wasn’t much to be done now, he supposed. They would go inside that cursed villa, kill whoever and whatever stood in their way, and get back out the way they had come in. That was what they always did, wasn’t it?

His lips tightened in a line, and his thumb brushed over the hilt of his dagger. If any one of those Freemen so much as thought of getting near him, he would-

“That must be Villa Maurel,” Cassandra said, shielding her eyes from the light and peering straight ahead of them.

The tops of the tall white slated roofs peeked through the thick foliage. A part of the crumbled outer wall stood not very far away, its dense stone laying in untidy heaps on the ground. The trees and bushes of its yard were either dead or overgrown, taking over much of the space that had no doubt once been tidy rows and stone paths.

Hushed conversations from the inside of the garden made them all stop and glance at each other. With a hurried hand motion, Tristan walked forward, sneaking through the trees and bushes, the other three in tow. Varric had already slung Bianca free from his shoulder, and Cassandra was gripping her sword and shield firmly. Dorian’s staff was in his hand, a focused expression on his face as he followed.

The voices were coming from a small corner of the garden, where there must have been a working fountain once. The marble statues were glinting under the merciless sun, their smooth white surface covered in muck and dust. They looked as if they had not been cleaned in months, and they most probably hadn’t. Most nobles that owned estates in the area had abandoned them long before, almost immediately after the war broke out. Now they were just the sad and hollow remnants of an illustrious past.

The men gathered about the disused fountain were dressed in fine plate armour, their swords sharp and well-kept. Tristan couldn’t make out what their conversation was about, but from their merry laughter it was probably idle talk. He could even hear the shuffling of cards on the fountain’s smooth ledge. They almost seemed like regular soldiers, with not much to do other than sit around and gossip, or a quick game of cards and a joke at midday. It was only the tell-tale red veins around their eyes that made them look alien to any regular soldier Tristan had ever met.

Cassandra didn’t waste a moment as soon as hers and Tristan’s gazes met. She charged forward, sword in hand, her fierce battle-cry drawing the enemies around her like a swarm of bees.

The Red Templars were shocked to see her, but they seemed far more ready for a battle than the Freemen had been. Their swords were drawn in an instant, their bodies melting into the familiar Templar’s battlestance that Tristan had seen Cullen use at times. Shoulders square, body turned to the side, shield held higher than normal and slightly tilted up to dispel stray magic. It almost seemed pointless to Tristan – what sort of warrior could ever be a match for a mage, after all?- but he was still surprised to see that it worked. Many of Dorian’s attacks whirled past them or crashed against their shields, missing them only by a hair. It was as if their very presence absorbed and negated magic at the same time.

Tristan’s daggers had long been unsheathed and coated with poison, and he flung himself amidst the men, sliding past their defences. The smoke bombs that Heir had taught him how to make worked well, better than he had thought they would, confusing the Templars and even making them attack each other in their fury and confusion. It was quick work picking them apart after that.

With a cry of fury, Cassandra tore down their leader, a tall and brawny man, his head almost entirely covered with red welts and crystal growths. Her nose was wrinkled in disgust when she wiped her blade on his dark cloak and placed her sword back in its scabbard.

“Pathetic excuses for human beings,” she spat. “No other end becomes them.”

Varric nodded solemnly as he threw Bianca back over his shoulder.

Dorian took his comb out of his pocket and fixed his hair in place. The golden carvings on the comb glittered in the light. “Alright, they’re done. What’s next?”

Tristan sheathed his daggers and looked around him. A small garden house was a little way away. From the scattered clothes and travel sacks, as well as the lyrium kits next to almost every cot, it must have been occupied by the Templars for at least a few days.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Whatever they were doing here, they didn’t seem very pressed on getting the Freemen out. If anything, they looked as if they have been killing time for days now.”

“Perhaps they were waiting for reinforcements,” Cassandra said, glancing at the house and the men sprawled on the floor. “Whoever is holed up in that mansion must command numbers.”

“That’s not good,” Varric said. “There could be an entire battalion inside. Maybe we should turn back.”

“Nonsense!” Dorian interjected. “This is the perfect chance to get to them, before the Red Templars do.”

Tristan felt fear and unease slithering down his spine. He ran his fingers through his hair, willing his heart to calmness. He glanced at the mansion, standing tall and proud before them, then at Dorian. It still wasn’t too late to retreat. They could go back to camp, and return the next day with more people of their own. That would be the safer choice for everyone, surely. And for Dorian in particular.

Dorian returned his gaze levelly and folded his arms before his chest, as if he could tell what Tristan was thinking. Tristan looked away, trying his best to keep his face expressionless. His instincts were screaming for him to pull back, but he knew that as soon as the Red Templar reinforcements arrived and broke through to the Freemen, they would have lost their opportunity to dismantle them for good.

His frown deepened as he took a step forward. “We push forward,” he said grimly. He thought he saw Varric and Cassandra exchanging a wary glance before following him, but he couldn’t be sure.

They followed the path to the villa’s entrance. The door was locked shut and most likely bolted from the inside. No matter how long Tristan tried to pick the lock, it refused to budge an inch. Even Cassandra pushing it with all her might did not do much to open it. Dorian stepped forward, pushing the sleeves of his robe back.

“Allow me,” he said casually, and flicked his fingers.

The door burst to flames with a deafening crash, splinters flying in every direction. Tristan was thankfully far away by then, but Cassandra barely had time to bring her shield up and cover herself.

“Are you mad?” she growled at him. “You could have hurt us!”

Dorian flashed her a wide, teasing smile as he dispelled the protective shield he had cast about him. “But you weren’t hurt, were you? If you managed to withstand Corypheus and his army at Haven, Seeker, I’m almost positive a lock will be no match for you,” he said, and with a flourish of his cloak, he took a brave step into the villa, leaving Cassandra muttering curses behind him.

The villa’s interior was in a much worse state than its exterior. Crates with old food and rubbish were crowded at the entrance, so much so that the door could barely be opened wide enough for them to squeeze in. The floor was littered with junk, and the once lush carpets were hidden under a thick coat of dust and debris. The once sturdy and intricately carved furniture were broken or missing parts, probably cut up for firewood or sold. Wherever the tapestries on the walls were intact, they had been marred by writings, or holes and scratches, that very much looked like someone had been practicing their knife throwing on them.

“This place is a pigsty,” Dorian said, wrinkling his nose. “However do these men live here like this?”

“It seems like they have been here for a while,” Varric said, inspecting a vandalised painting hanging lopsided on the wall, the face of the woman it depicted buried under a multitude of obscene drawings.

Cassandra gripped her sword hilt firmly, glancing around her with what could only be contempt and disgust in her eyes. “Well, they _are_ animals and they live like animals, too. That much is evident.”

Tristan walked forward, tip toeing around the pieces of wood and the shards of broken glass that littered the floor. Not that it was much use – they had made enough noise coming in to alert an army several miles away of their presence.

They crossed the dim corridors, illuminated only by the sunlight creeping in through the broken windows. There was no sound coming from anywhere in the mansion, the only sounds being the overgrown weeds in the garden stirring in the wind and the buzzing of flies over food that had spoiled long before. The inner yard was not much better than the rest of the house. The once well-kept garden was largely abandoned, the shallow pool of water in its middle thick with moss and reeds.

Dorian fell in beside him, his footsteps muffled by the thick grass. He looked about him wide eyed, as if expecting someone to attack them any minute. His colour was slightly better than it had been but a couple hours before, but Tristan could still see the dark circles under his eyes and the haggardness in his features.

“Do you still feel it?” Tristan whispered to him, drawing closer. “The red lyrium?”

Dorian shook his head softly. “No. There must be some of it here, but I think it’s far away. I can still feel my skin crawling, but it’s not quite that bad. Perhaps if we go to the far rooms-“

His words were cut short when an arrow whistled past Tristan’s ear and fixed itself on the wall behind him with a thud. Its feathered tail was still quivering when Tristan pushed Dorian behind him and reached for his daggers. Fear and adrenaline shot straight through him, making his ears buzz. Cassandra ran next to him, sword at the ready.

“Inquisitor!” she panted. “Are you-“

She barely had time to bring up her shield and deflect the next arrow that was shot at them. Tristan blinked, and soon there were soldiers swarming from all sides. Their swords were held high, and their battle cries sent ripples of shock through his body.

Cassandra didn’t waste one moment running straight to the thick of the battle, cutting down everyone in her path. Varric’s arrows flew in an incessant stream, lodging themselves in throats, chests, knees, shouts of pain and agony following them.

There were so many of them -too many, by all accounts- but Tristan found it surprising how easy it was for his daggers to thread their way through their armours. They seemed weak, wretched, their armour and leather breeches pooling around their bony arms and legs. Tristan wondered how long they must have been inside that villa, cut off from the outside world, as he dragged his blade along a man’s throat. They mustn’t have had a decent meal in days, perhaps even weeks.

Still, they were skilled enough with their swords and their bows. They put up an admirable fight, so much so that Tristan almost felt sorry for them. Almost. Knowing what they had involved themselves in, there wasn’t much in the way of pity left in his heart for them. Whoever worked with Corypheus deserved the worst sort of death that life could afford them.

The thought brought some new found strength with it. He fought back to back with Cassandra, as if the two of them were in sync. Despite the awkwardness between them during all other hours of the day, when they fought it felt like they were a well-oiled machine, Cassandra drawing the enemies’ attention to her while Tristan leapt at them from the shadows. Along with Dorian’s well timed spells and Varric’s arrows, they were a force to be reckoned with.

The battleground was thinning out rapidly, and Tristan was already feeling quite relieved. Really, he shouldn’t have worried so much. Dorian was right. Whatever it was, they could take it. Just a few more well calculated moves and the enemy would be beaten, and-

It wasn’t exactly a person that brushed past him. It was more like an aura, an almost ethereal presence that moved just at the edges of his sight, silent and barely perceptible. The razor sharp edge of a blade gleaming in the light of the afternoon sun was the only thing that betrayed that someone was indeed there.

The dagger whistled mere inches away from his throat as Tristan instinctively pulled back, rolling out of his attacker’s reach. A flash of a golden mask, the fluttering of a hood in the wind, and his attacker disappeared again.

Tristan blinked, spinning around, daggers raised and ready to draw blood. Almost as if by accident, as if in a dream, he caught glimpses of a lithe and agile body, rolling between them all, attacking mercilessly wherever they could find an opening. Fear slithered into Tristan’s mind and held it tightly. Whatever sort of assassin that person was, he had never before seen the like. Not even Heir was as agile as he was, and she was the fastest blade Tristan had ever met.

This man -or woman, or demon, for all Tristan could tell- was something else altogether. It was as if he was melting into the background, becoming one with the air around him. He moved too fast for Tristan’s eyes to follow him. At the rate he was going, he would kill them all and Tristan wouldn’t be able to tell even where he was hit from.

He clenched his jaw and dashed to the place where he had last seen him. Shadows stretched around him, and he gripped his daggers closely. His ears caught the brush of fabric against fabric a hair to his left – he spun around and slashed, barely waiting to see who he was hitting. His daggers found resistance, sliding through light armour and flesh as if he was cutting butter, and a muffled cry of pain sounded from beside him.

 _There you are_ , Tristan thought with a wicked smile. He followed the trail of blood, slicing wildly about him, hoping that one of his attacks would find their target. His strategy was working, it seemed, and he was sure he had managed a few good gashes on the man’s skin, when suddenly the world was turned on its head.

Something that felt like a leg slid from underneath him, knocking him flat on his back. He rolled just in time before the tip of a dagger sank itself through his collarbone, hitting the soft earth below him instead. He bounced back up, scrambling away as fast as he could, and for the first time took a good look at his attacker.

It was a man – it must have been- his face concealed by his mask, his clothes made of the finest and most lightweight wool. It looked paper thin but still durable, muffling his movements. His dark eyes shone from within the depths of his drawn up hood, determined and calculating. A predator’s eyes.

A fireball crackled past Tristan, the air warping and changing around it, before heading for the assassin. The man ducked down just in time to avoid the brunt of it, but it still managed to graze his sides, his light armour catching fire instantly. The man rolled agilely, getting most of the flames off him, then landed on soft feet.

His dark eyes snapped from Tristan to Dorian. Tristan barely had time to notice the slight flick of his wrist before he stepped back, melting off into the shadows again. The sound of heavy boots on hard gravel ringing across the yard tore his attention from where the assassin had been. A new swarm of soldiers poured forth from the bowels of the mansion, swiftly overwhelming them.

Cassandra glanced around her wide eyed, sweat gleaming on her brow and blood running from a gash on her cheek as she got into battle stance again. Tristan gripped his daggers firmly, clenching his jaw. Curse him, but this had been far from an easy battle. It pained him to realise that he had spoken too soon before, when he thought that this would all be over quickly.

A tall and strong woman holding two swords ran towards him, the edges of her blades razor sharp and freshly whetted. Tristan leapt away from her, a breath away from where she had slashed. His lungs burned with the effort, and he felt fat sweat drops rolling down his back, making his armour cling uncomfortably to his skin. The woman attacked again, her swords making whistling sounds as they cut the air around him. Her eyes from beneath the darkness of her helmet were a warm chestnut brown, but there was nothing warm in her gaze when she looked at him. Frankly, she seemed quite insane and wrought with fury.

“Intruders,” she hissed. “Die, all of you!”

Tristan gritted his teeth as he rolled to the side just before she lunged forward, bringing his daggers down upon her outstretched arm. She growled in pain, retreating swiftly. She clutched at her elbow, where Tristan had successfully cut through the tendon. Her arm hung pitifully at her sides, and she looked at him in despair, knowing full well that her sword arm would be utterly useless now. She scrambled back, eager to get away from him. Tristan took advantage of her opening, his throwing knives sinking deep into the back of her neck.

She fell on her knees with a thud, the brown earth turning almost black with her blood. Tristan didn’t even have time to make sure she was dead before another man lunged at him, sword brandished.

It was a bloody battle, and the enemies kept coming, until it was all a blur. He slashed and fought with mad fury, hardly stopping to take breath, ignoring any cuts or bruises that they managed to inflict on him. Amidst the fog and din of battle, he was vaguely aware of Cassandra barely holding her own against two warriors, and Varric doing his best to distract them and weaken them with his arrows and his carefully placed traps. Blood was oozing from a wound at his thigh and darkening his armour, but he didn’t seem to pay that any mind as he kept fitting arrows through his crossbow. Dorian was admittedly doing most of the damage, casting incessantly, setting their enemies on fire or zapping them with electricity, and placing barriers over them all when he could.

The assassin however was nowhere to be seen, and try as he might, Tristan could not catch a glimpse him amidst the chaos.

With a final roll and a slash, Tristan finished off one of the Freemen that had been pestering him, plunging his dagger deep into his throat.

He looked around him, clutching his left arm were the last man he fought had managed to cut him. Blood was running down his skin, thick and warm, but he wasn’t even paying attention to it, so hard was his heart pumping. He paused to take a breath and a sip from a healing potion. There were still a few soldiers remaining, but hope quivered in his heart once again. It seemed as if they would make it, after all.

Before he had managed to finish that thought, he caught a glimpse of razor sharp daggers, moving swiftly among the shadows and clamour of battle. He couldn’t even make out where he was going, when he suddenly saw the daggers flashing just behind Dorian.

Terror gripped him, freezing cold and all consuming. He took a hurried step forward, throwing knives at hand to attack him as soon as he so much as made himself seen, when Varric’s panicked voice stopped him.

“Blondie! Behind you!”

Tristan stepped to the side just in time to avoid an arrow flying past his ear. The man that had shot it was just a little way away from him, his crossbow in hand. Tristan furiously ran to him, determined to end the man as fast as he could. He had to kill him, he had to get to Dorian, he had to-

The soldier leapt away, throwing his crossbow on the ground and reaching for his daggers. Tristan lunged and tried to pierce the man’s armour with his blade, but he seemed prepared for that. Sparks flew when their blades met, and Tristan was thrown back. Stubbornly, Tristan attacked him again, and again, and his daggers were always met with a parry.

They fought for what felt like hours. From the corner of his eye, Tristan thought he saw the flash of the assassin’s steel ringing against Dorian’s barrier, cast just in time around him to protect him from the blow. Tristan gritted his teeth, his blood rising straight to his head as he fought with a menace he had never known before. The soldier attacking him was annoying as a buzzing fly, barely skilled enough to kill him, yet quick and agile enough to deflect his attacks.

With his heart beating madly against his ribcage, Tristan leapt to the side, hoping to get close enough to the man to stab him on his flank and pierce his lungs in what would be a fatal blow. He landed firmly on his feet and prepared to lunge, just as he heard a faint yelp from where Dorian was.

He was suddenly oblivious to everything else around him as he watched, as if in slow motion, Dorian fighting with the assassin. The man’s blades moved so quickly he could barely see them, and no matter how many spells Dorian threw his way, he always somehow managed to avoid them, gaining just a tiny bit of ground every second.

Tristan didn’t realise he had paused to stare. The sharp, iced fire of a blade dragging against his chest snapped his attention back to where he was, to the man that he had been fighting and had now found an opening to slash at him with his daggers.

With barely controlled rage, made even worse by the pain that flooded his senses and the blood that was flowing down his chest, he lunged at him, fighting with all his might. The man’s eyes grew wide as he scrambled to fend off his attacks, edging away from him, yet Tristan’s menace knew no bounds. The man was a bleeding, heaving mess on the ground by the time Tristan was finished with him. He spun around, blades dripping with blood as he ran towards Dorian.

He got there just in time to see Cassandra having caught the assassin from behind, wrestling the daggers out of his grasp as they both writhed on the ground. Dorian was leaning heavily on his staff, panting . Varric stumbled towards them too, running to help Cassandra hold the man still.

Yet Tristan had no mind for any of that. He flew to Dorian’s side, his panic subsiding momentarily only to flare up again when he saw the blood seeping through his fingers as he clutched his middle.

“What happened? Did he hurt you?” he asked breathlessly, sheathing his daggers. A muffled groan echoed from behind him, when Cassandra’s gauntleted fist collided with the assassin’s face and he finally stopped resisting.

Dorian shook his head vigorously. “It’s just a graze.”

“Let me see.”

Gently, Tristan helped Dorian sit on the ledge behind them and pried his hand away from the wound. It seemed relatively clean and shallow. A healing potion and a couple stitches would be enough to take care of it, he was sure. He almost let out a sigh of relief as he lifted his eyes to Dorian’s face, only to have his relief turn to ash in his mouth.

Dorian had turned several shades paler, his lips drained from all colour. His staff fell on the ground, and his hand fell limply to the side. When he tried to speak, only an unintelligible mumble escaped his lips.

It was as if time had suddenly stopped, and he was watching himself watch Dorian losing more and more of his strength with every moment that passed.

“Poison,” he panted, so softly he barely heard himself say it.

“Is everything alright there, Blondie?” Varric said, looking at him curiously.

Cassandra was just lifting herself off the ground, pulling the man up as well. His wrists were bound behind his back and his hood and mask had been pulled back, revealing a young man, no older than thirty, thirty five at most, his sweaty brown hair pulled back in a tail, his large dark eyes the colour of soot, watching them all with faint interest. A trail of blood at the side of his head that ran down to his neck made him look paler than perhaps he was.

Tristan surged forward, anger burning hot and ravenous inside him. “You poisoned him,” he hissed, glaring at the man. “There was poison on your blades.”

The assassin returned his look calmly, levelly, as if he had said the most normal thing in the world. “Of course I did,” he said in a thick Orlesian accent. His voice was low and melodic, and drawled in a way that grated at Tristan’s already frayed nerves. “Don’t _you_ use poison on your blades?”

Tristan was trembling with fury as he crossed the small distance between them. He pushed the man on a column that stood behind them, and he crashed against it with a pained huff.

“Where is the antidote?” Tristan growled, low in his throat. “Where the _fuck_ is it?”

The assassin’s lips peeled back, revealing a row of bloodied teeth. A slow mirth escaped him at the fury in Tristan’s voice. “Now, why would I give you that?”

Tristan reached for his daggers, ready to bash the man’s skull in with their pommel if need be. Cassandra pulled him back by his shoulder.

“We need him alive, Inquisitor,” she said, concern edging her voice. “He might have information for us.”

Tristan pushed her hands off him, seething with rage. Dorian was watching the exchange, his eyes getting less and less lucid by the second. “I don’t care about his information,” Tristan grunted, ready to wrestle her to get to the assassin. “If he doesn’t give me the antidote, I’ll kill him myself!”

He tried to fight past Cassandra, but her grip on him was strong. He gave up when he realised she was just a tad stronger than him.

Despite his mocking smile, the man stayed calm and steady as Varric quietly searched through his pockets for the antidote. Varric’s face lit up when he found a small satchel.

“This must be it,” he said, tossing the satchel at Tristan. “Assassins always keep their antidotes close at hand.”

Tristan snatched it through the air as it flew, the vials clinking inside it. He opened it hastily, searching through them. They were small, and most of them looked like healing potions, but there were a couple that were most definitely poisons and their antidotes.

“Which one is it?” he hissed at the man.

Instead of a response, the man turned his head and spat on the ground, spit mingled with blood and a couple broken teeth. “If I told you which one it was, would you believe me?”

Tristan heard a low sound coming from deep within him, like the growl of an injured animal. Had Cassandra not been there, he was sure he would have killed him without hesitation.

“It’s the blue one,” the assassin said. A grin crossed his face. “Go ahead. Give it to him.”

It looked like the smile of a deranged person, as wide and toothy as his eyes were bleak and emotionless. How could Tristan possibly believe anything that came out of this man’s mouth, especially when it had to do with Dorian’s life?

Barely controlling the trembling of his fingers, he rummaged through the vials, opening them up to check their contents. Dorian’s breathing was getting more and more laboured, and it seemed to take a great deal of effort for him to lift his head to peer at him, mouth slightly slack and eyelids drooping.

Tristan took a shaky breath and forced himself to think. It looked like the assassin had used a simple paralysing poison; anything more potent and Dorian’s heart would have seized long before. Tristan pulled the cork out of a small vial, the smell of elfroot and felandaris leaf wafting from inside it. If any one of those vials were the antidote, then this would have to be it.

The veins in his throat were pulsing violently when he crouched next to Dorian. He was barely conscious when Tristan gently opened his mouth and tipped the contents of the vial over his lips. He watched him anxiously, waiting for some sort of response. The seconds dragged on endlessly, yet there was no change in him.

“It will take a little while to work,” the man said just as Tristan was about to lose his patience, “but your friend will live. I assure you.”

Tristan raked a hand through his hair, huffing in annoyance. The man was right, of course. An unsophisticated antidote like that would take several minutes to take full effect. With not much else to do other than wait, he took some bandages out of the satchel by his belt and gently worked at cleaning Dorian’s wound. The cloth was quickly seeped in blood. It was fascinating, really, how much blood a small wound like that could produce. He barely paid any mind to Cassandra and Varric, who were questioning the man.

“My name is Maliphant,” he heard the man say. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Cassandra scowled at his amused tone. “What is your business here? Who were the men with you?”

“Perhaps I should ask the same of you.”

A loud snapping sound tore Tristan’s attention away from Dorian to glance over his shoulder. Maliphant, or whatever his name was, was glaring at Cassandra, the shape of her hand still imprinted upon his cheek, red and blazing.

“Speak, worm,” she hissed at him. “Or I’ll cut out your venomous tongue.”

Maliphant shot her a steady glare, then spit out some more blood on the ground before him and gave her an enigmatic smile. “Eager to get to know me, are you? I know some better ways to do that. You can keep that armour of yours on. I can work my way around it.” Cassandra raised her hand again, and the man gave out a sharp huff of a laugh. “Alright, alright, I’ll talk. Maker, you are an impatient bunch.”

He nodded at Tristan. “You’re the Inquisitor, are you not? The Herald of Andraste? I’ve heard about you.”

Tristan turned away, his scowl getting deeper as he pressed a new bandage on Dorian’s wound. Anger and hate were bubbling inside him, but he couldn’t help but sneak grim glances over his shoulder at the man as he started talking, his voice flat and expressionless, as if he were reading from a book in front of him.

“I was once a lieutenant under Commander Laurent in Empress Celene’s army. We had been stationed at Val Firmin for months. It was myself, Laurent and an infantry division. We were supposed to be on the lookout for bandit raids and Gaspard’s men trying to overtake the nearby villages. One of Gaspard’s soldiers sneaked into our base and killed Laurent while she slept.”

Tristan thought he saw him shuddering slightly as he uttered the words. Maliphant paused to take a breath, his gaze fixed on the ground. “My men caught the soldier and brought him before me. He looked… familiar. I wouldn’t be surprised if I once shared a drink with him. But that is how it was. That’s how it still is. This war has pitted brother against brother, Orlesian against Orlesian.” He clenched his jaw, a frown passing over his features. “I was Laurent’s second in command, and was supposed to take her place until a Chevalier came to replace her, but I couldn’t stand the thought of going to war under somebody else. Whatever loyalty I had, it was to Laurent. When she was killed, my loyalty went with her.”

Cassandra huffed in contempt. “As if someone like you would know anything about loyalty.”

Maliphant’s face twisted in outrage, his lips drawn back in a snarl. It was the first time since he has taken off his mask that Tristan had seen him display any sort of emotion. “I _loved_ her! We all did. Laurent was a good woman. An honourable woman. She was a noble, but she was the best of them. She instilled in me the pride in what we did. She taught me how to use a sword, and how to keep it sheathed. I would go to hell and back if that woman ordered me. How could I stay and continue fighting that war, when the only person worth a damn was dead, and at the hands of someone who used to be my brother-in-arms?” He shook his head, huffing in disgust. “I walked away. I took the men that were under me and came all the way here. That’s where we found others like us, soldiers that had fled from their posts and others that had lost their homes during the war. Celene’s men pursued us for a while, but they soon gave up. There were far too many of us here, and far too few of them left. So, we settled. We made this place our own.”

Cassandra listened quietly, her arms folded before her chest. “So you shunned your duty and came to live in the forest. Was that when you started attacking refugees and making bandits of yourselves?” she said, her tone dripping with disapproval.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Maliphant’s look was one of utter contempt, his eyes gliding over her slowly. Even though he had to crane his neck to glare at Cassandra, he still somehow managed to look down on her. “I know how people like _you_ think of people like _me_.”

“People like me?” Cassandra scoffed. “Who exactly are these people?”

Maliphant laughed, but it sounded bitter and forced. “All you high and mighty lords and ladies, with your fancy airs and your silver spoons. Just because your life is easy, you think it’s easy for everyone else as well. You believe that anyone that’s not like you is nothing but shit on the soles of your shoes. Commoners, peasants, servants to be ordered about, _vermin_ \- that’s what we are to you. You have no idea what it’s like, no idea-“ He cut himself short, taking a sharp breath. He shook his head slightly, then looked back up at her.

“I grew up in the streets. People kicked me about like a dog, until I enlisted myself in the army. That’s the only time I had any sort of worth – when I willingly pledged myself to fight somebody else’s war. Spilling our blood, dying like animals, that’s the only thing people like me are good for.”

His chest was heaving with the force with which he spoke. He took a breath and leaned back, his head resting on the column beside him. His voice was smooth and quiet when he spoke, and Tristan had to strain to hear him. “Laurent was the only person that saw past that. She never ordered us to death recklessly, she would do everything in her power to protect every one of us, and we would do the same for her. I would die for her, had I but the chance.”

An uncomfortable silence spread over the yard. The few moans from the dying men around them were the only sounds for a long moment as Maliphant took a few deep breaths and blinked, as if it was physically difficult for him to keep his eyes open.

“What’s going on between the Freemen and the Red Templars?” Cassandra asked after a long while. “When did you start working with them?”

Maliphant looked at her quizzically, as if just waking up. “They… approached us shortly after most of us had gathered here. They offered us weapons and gold if we helped bring their supplies through the forest. We had nowhere else to turn to, so we accepted. At first, everything worked well. They banded all of the Freemen groups together, coordinated out attacks, showed us how to organize ourselves. Things were going well for us. For once, it looked like we really had a hope of establishing our own territory, and keeping it, too. But then…”

His words trailed off as he glanced away. His gaze fell on a wasp buzzing nearby, amongst the corpses. It seemed utterly oblivious to all the death around it, to the fresh blood still oozing from their wounds.

“Well?” Cassandra pressed him. “What happened then?”

Maliphant continued speaking, not taking his eyes off the wasp. “They brought the red lyrium with them. It is foul stuff, and most of us wanted to stay the hell away from it, but they made us mine it. That _thing_ ,” he said with a disgusted grimace, “it addles your brain. Stay long enough around it and you start hearing voices inside your own head. A couple of my men went mad. They screamed like beasts and tore at their own faces. We had to strap them down, and even then sometimes the straps couldn’t hold them back. So, instead of mining it ourselves, we sometimes caught refugees and made them work at it instead. It was hard work to catch them, and some of my men died trying to capture them, but it worked. For a while. Until the kidnappings started.”

Varric’s eyebrows shot up with curiosity. “What kidnappings?”

Maliphant returned his curious look with one of his own, as if he couldn’t understand why Varric would ask him that sort of question. Still, he went on, the words spilling out of him in waves. “The refugees we would catch started disappearing. The Red Templars would come and pick a few at a time, carting them away to Maker knows where. We didn’t like it, no more than having to mine that stuff the Templars were gobbling down like candy, but as long as they left us alone, it was fine. But soon after that my men started disappearing too. First it was Olie, then Thierry. Then Marion, and Ella…”

He pressed his eyes shut, then opened them again with a sharp inhale. “The Templars would take them on “missions”, and they would never return. We asked them about them, time and time again, but they just said that they were killed on duty. I didn’t believe a word coming out of their mouths. So, one night, I followed them. I saw…” His gaze went blank, and he stared off into the distance. When he spoke again, his voice was wooden. “I saw where they took them. Wish I hadn’t. I returned here, locked myself and my men in and cut off all ties to those bastards.”

Maliphant stopped and gave a slow chuckle, that sounded more like a half sob. When he raised his dark, deep set eyes to Cassandra’s, Tristan thought he saw them gleaming at the corners. “And that’s where you came in. Interesting story, no?”

Cassandra took a step forward, her voice hard as steel. “Where were the Templars taking them?”

But Maliphant seemed not to have heard. He was gazing past Cassandra now, at the blue sky and its clouds, white and fluffy, drifting languidly overhead.

Tristan’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the serenity in his features. The man looked half mad. Making sure that the bandage was safely on Dorian’s wound, he stood up to face Maliphant.

“She asked you a question,” he hissed, feeling his patience running thin. “Where did the Templars take them? What did they do to them?”

Maliphant’s eyes snapped to him, and the keen amusement that he had seen when he had taken off the mask was back there, in the blink of an eye. “Why is it so important for you to know?”

Tristan had had enough of that mocking smile, and his tone and his excuses to make the crimes he had committed seem like the only possible option in a hopeless situation. The man was a thug and a murderer, and he and his kind had reduced the Dales to what they were now.

He took a threatening step forward. “You’ll tell me, or I’ll make sure you don’t live to tell another tale.”

Maliphant let out a soft, drawn out chuckle. “Well, I never. You actually believe you can stop them.” He shook his head, his shoulders trembling with mirth. “I must admit, you’re an interesting character, Inquisitor. Before I met you, I expected a child, molly coddled and drunk on whatever stories the Chantry are telling the crowds these days. But, my, you’re a ruthless one. Not the Chantry type at all, if I may say so myself.”

Tristan gritted his teeth, Maliphant’s icy condescension grating at his nerves.

Maliphant continued, as if he couldn’t see the flush creeping up Tristan’s cheeks. “I’ve heard that you’ve done all sorts of things to help the poor wretches of this world. The refugees, the mages, the hunted, the downtrodden… Not that it’s not admirable. Far from it. But I have to ask. Does that help you sleep better at night?” He leaned forward, his eyes boring holes into Tristan’s. “Something tells me it doesn’t,” he whispered.

Tristan returned his amused gaze with an icy glare, his fists clenched so tightly he could feel his nails digging into his palm. “You know _nothing_ about me.”

Maliphant’s enigmatic smile disappeared to be replaced by a scowl, so deep it twisted his features. “I’ve heard enough to know that you're just another spoiled brat, playing at saving the world. What you fail to understand is that there _is_ no saving. I tried to save my men and I doomed them instead. What makes you think you and I are so different?”

“You didn't try to save anyone,” Tristan replied, his voice thick with vehemence. “You just led a bunch of thieves and bandits and stole from the very people you were supposed to be fighting for!”

“I took what was _mine_!” Maliphant growled, spit flying from his mouth with the fervour. “What was ours! Orlais should belong to the Orlesians, to the people who defend her borders, who till her fields. Celene and Gaspard don't care about us. About any of us. They would kill us all just to prove a point. I took my men away from all that!”

“And sacrificed them to someone else, ten times worse than Celene and Gaspard combined,” Tristan said dryly.

Maliphant’s eyes were wide as he looked at him, shock and disbelief shining through them. He took a couple heaving breaths, his mouth working silently. With a barely audible sigh he settled back, leaning heavily on the marble column behind him. He looked terribly weary and broken all of a sudden.

“I promised them a better life,” he said quietly. “A life free from nobles and overlords. A place where we could be masters of ourselves. And I almost gave them that. It was within our grasp. We were so close, so close…” His voice broke, and his shoulders convulsed. Tears started streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the blood and dust on his face. He fixed his eyes on Tristan, red and bleary as they were, and so filled with sorrow that Tristan almost took a step back. “It was a hopeless dream. But it was worth dying for.”

No one spoke for a long while. Maliphant cried and cried, his tears running down his neck and staining his shirt, until it seemed there were no more left inside him to shed. At length, he wiped his nose on his shoulder. When he spoke, there was a steely determination in his voice, despite the sobs that still wracked him.

“I’ll tell you what I saw that night. I’ll tell you everything I know about the Red Templars. But only if you promise that you’ll find them, and kill every last one of them.” His eyes glinted oddly under the glare of the midday sun. “Every last one.”

“Was it a wise decision to let Maliphant go, Inquisitor?”

Cassandra was standing at the entrance of the tent, her arms folded before her chest. There was a look of concern on her face, her brows furrowed only slightly.

Tristan let out a soft sigh. He dipped the cloth he was holding in the bowl of water in front of him and squeezed it tightly, wringing out most of the liquid before placing it on Dorian’s forehead. He had been conscious for a few hours after they had left the mansion, vomiting and trembling all the way to their camp until he could barely keep his eyes open, yet now he was sleeping, his breaths steady and deep. The colour on his face had almost returned, except for his lips, that looked just a little bit paler than usual.

“There’s nothing Maliphant can do now,” Tristan said absently. “His men are all dead, and the Red Templars are after him. I won’t be surprised if we find him dead in a shallow ditch somewhere before we leave.”

Cassandra looked away, her lips pursed in thought. “He seemed like a rather ingenious fellow to me. I wouldn’t underestimate him.”

Tristan shrugged, returning to Dorian. “It hardly matters now. What’s done is done.”

Varric’s light footsteps sounded from outside, the gravel crunching under the soles of his boots. Cassandra stepped to the side to let him pass, and he came into the tent, a bowl of something steaming in his hands.

“How’s our patient doing?” he said cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to Cassandra’s pensive frown and the tightness in Tristan’s features. “I brought him something to eat.”

“He fell asleep after you left.” Tristan took the cloth off Dorian’s forehead, warm from touching his fevered brow. He dipped it in the bowl again and placed it gently back on his forehead.

Varric stopped short for a moment, but then came to sit beside him. “You can have it then.”

Tristan’s stomach twisted painfully. Dorian was always the one to chase him around with a bowl of food whenever they were on missions and remind him to eat when he forgot. Now, he was lying there unconscious, after barely having escaped death. All because of him.

He pressed his lips in a tight line, his scowl deep. “Not hungry.”

He thought he caught Varric sneaking a glance at Cassandra over his shoulder again. Those two seemed to be exchanging glances a lot more of late. Still, he couldn’t be sure. Either way, he didn’t really care.

Cassandra cleared her throat. Her voice was soft and gentle when she spoke, as if afraid to dispel the quiet that had suddenly fallen. “Is there something else you need of me, Inquisitor?”

Tristan shook his head. “No. Thank you, Cassandra.”

“I’ll take the first watch, then.” She turned around to leave, but stopped short to peer at him over her shoulder. “Make sure you get some rest.”

Tristan ignored her as he kept tending to Dorian, although he hardly needed tending to. The sound of the water in the bowl when he dipped the cloth back in it and the crackling of the fire outside were the only sounds for a long while. Varric still sat beside him, but Tristan had nothing to say to him. Or to anyone. Dorian’s chest was rising and falling softly with his breaths, and that was all that mattered to him. All that mattered.

“How’re you feeling, Blondie?” Varric said, forcing a cheerful tone to his voice. “It has been a long day.”

Tristan didn’t reply as he placed his finger on the inside of Dorian’s wrist, checking his pulse. It was somewhat quicker than he would have liked, but at least it was steady.

Varric shifted slightly in his seat, but he didn’t seem deterred by Tristan’s lack of response. “Why don’t you go to your tent, have a drink, get some rest? I’ll watch over him.”

“No.” Tristan’s voice was flat and sharp, and almost cut Varric’s sentence short. “I’ll stay. You can stay with me, if you want. But I’m not leaving here.”

Varric’s mouth snapped shut. Not even one of his usual jokes could have brightened Tristan’s spirits much at that point, and he probably knew that. He sat silently beside him for a long while, wringing his hands. When he spoke, his tone was unusually serious and earnest.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

Tristan’s mouth twisted in a faint grimace. He knew well what Varric was talking about, but, for some reason, acknowledging it was harder than he thought. “What isn’t?” he asked dryly.

“This. Him,” Varric said, nodding towards Dorian. “It’s not your fault that he got hurt. It’s not your fault if any of us gets hurt. You should know that.”

Tristan let out a short, mocking huff, feeling the bitterness and defeat spreading inside him like poison. “Then whose fault is it?”

“Nobody’s. We all knew what we were getting into when we joined the Inquisition. And believe me when I say that we are all well aware of the dangers by now.”

“It is my duty to protect you,” Tristan replied, his tone bleak. “All of you. I’m the one this weight falls upon. I’m the one who has to make all the decisions. If I make the wrong one and one of you gets injured, or worse, then what good am I? What good is any of it?”

His heart thumped painfully in his chest. Varric couldn't answer those questions. No one could. He twisted his ring, but even that failed to calm him. Tilly’s face flashed before his eyes, pale and drawn, like the last time he had seen her. When he had sworn, foolishly, that he would save her.

Maliphant’s words echoed in his mind. Perhaps there really was no saving anyone after all.

Varric let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks. “I think you’re forgetting that getting hurt or dying is probably not the worst that can happen to someone at this point. I know that, and I’m sure Sparkler here knows it too. We’ve all pledged ourselves to this cause, and we did so willingly. That is no small thing. Any sort of choice in the times we live in is a luxury.”

He stood up slowly, patting Tristan’s shoulder in a way that felt vaguely comforting. “I’ll go get some sleep. Make sure you do, too.”

The silence that spread inside the tent as soon as Varric left felt as if a mountain was suddenly boring down on him. He pressed the heels of his palms on his tired eyes, willing himself to stay awake. He knew that even if he slept now, it wouldn’t be long until the nightmares caught up to him. He had been having more of them as of late. Besides, taking his gaze off Dorian was more than he could bear at that moment.

Tristan knew that Varric was right. He knew that Dorian had chosen to be there, had asked to come with him. He knew that there was not much he could do to protect him from the world. He would be damned if he didn’t try, though.

Dorian mumbled faintly as he shifted in his sleep, stirring Tristan from his thoughts.

“I’m here,” he whispered soothingly, patting Dorian's brow with the cloth. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling friend and incredibly talented artist and writer [Schoute](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) drew [this stunning portrait of Tristan](https://schoute.tumblr.com/post/188778831519/tristan-trevelyan-for-the-wonderful) and I'm screaminggg!! This totally made my day and I honestly don't know what to do with all this love, I'm in tears :'D 
> 
> If you want to see more art of the salty blond boyo, my beloved friend and fellow potato gremlin [TheSaltyHealer](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/) (aka [HumblePeasant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumblePeasant/pseuds/HumblePeasant) here on AO3) has done so many gorgeous drawings of him, and they never fail to make me cry and laugh at the same time and just make my poor hort explode with feels. Check them out [here](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/187551093832/tristan-trevelyan-from-my-dearest), [here](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/187572119842/if-i-drink-fast-enough-i-wont-be-able-to-make) and [here](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/187662863642/hes-either-staring-at-dorian-drunk-both-or)! :D
> 
> Go give my girl some love because I love her so damn much and her fic [The Guardian](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16391306/chapters/38367374) is one of my absolute favourite fics of all time and she is one of the best writers and artists I know :'))
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi if you fancy! :)


	18. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....aaand the rating just turned to Explicit. NSFW ahead ;)

The morning light peeking through the tent entrance was the first thing Dorian saw when he cracked his eyes open. Rubbing at his gritty eyelashes, he tried to sit up on his bedroll, and instantly regretted it.

Everything was sore; his head, his throat, his entire body. It was a struggle to recollect exactly what had happened before he lost consciousness; they had all been at the villa, when that assassin appeared out of nowhere. The man had been as irritating as a buzzing fly, never letting Dorian take a single breath between attacks. He had managed to get him too, a relatively shallow cut at his side. It had burned terribly, that much Dorian remembered.

Trevelyan had been there, by his side. He remembered him growling and scowling while trying to help him with his wounds, the highlights in his pale blonde hair catching the light as he talked animatedly with someone that Dorian couldn’t quite remember. It wasn’t too long afterwards that his memories became hazy and melted together.

With a sharp inhale, he pushed the covers off him, swinging his aching legs to the side. Getting up was a struggle in and of itself, but he eventually managed to stand straight and put his armour on. He took a moment to run his comb through his hair to fix it in place -the comb Trevelyan had gifted him, he reminded himself, his heart fluttering only slightly- and made sure his coat was on right before pushing the tent flap.

The bright sunlight blinded him. He squinted and brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun’s merciless glare.

“Sparkler!” a laughing voice said. “Rise and shine!”

Dorian blinked to help his eyes adjust and took a few reluctant steps forward, towards the camp fire by which Varric was sitting. The dwarf was stirring something in a pot over the crackling logs. It smelt absolutely delicious, and it was only then that Dorian realised how famished he was.

“How are you feeling?” Varric asked him.

“I’m alive, for one,” Dorian said groggily. “That should count for something, shouldn’t it?”

Varric let out a soft chuckle as he continued stirring the pot. Dorian looked around him, taking in the unfamiliar campsite. Evidently, they had camped at an abandoned elven ruin at the top of a hill. It was surrounded by trees from all sides, concealing them from view. He couldn’t even remember climbing the steep hill sides.

“What happened after I got hurt? My memory seems to elude me,” Dorian asked Varric, reaching for the water barrel. He dipped his cup in it and took a large draught.

“We caught the assassin that attacked you. A very talkative fellow,” Varric said. “He gave us the information we needed and we left that place. Blondie and Cassandra carried you all the way up here, to make sure the Freemen or the Red Templars wouldn’t find us. It’s been two days since that.”

Dorian almost choked on his water. “ _Two days?_ ”

Varric returned his bewildered look with a quizzical one of his own. “That was a strong poison the assassin used on you. You would have been dead within minutes if he hadn’t coughed up the antidote as quickly as he did. Even with that, you were pretty much out of it for hours.”

“Maker,” Dorian breathed. No wonder he felt so rotten.

“Blondie stayed by your side all night. He wouldn’t go away, not even when we were certain you would be alright. Cassandra had to practically carry him out and force him to get into his bed to sleep. They argued for about half an hour until he pretty much passed out.” Varric chuckled under his breath. “You should see those two fight. They’re quite the sight.”

Dorian listened to Varric absently, his pulse thumping in his throat. Trevelyan must have been a nervous wreck after all that. He definitely seemed more and more eager to protect him ever since they had become closer. It irked Dorian somewhat to have Trevelyan fuss over him as if he were a child, but more than that he felt… numb. Never before had he had someone care that much for his wellbeing, and he never expected it either. Especially not then, when the world felt ready to collapse around them. As much as he wanted to be annoyed, or even appalled, he couldn’t help the warmth that blossomed in his chest.

He rubbed the back of his neck, hoping that the smile that was threatening to widen his lips didn’t show. “Where is he now? And- and where is Cassandra?” he added hastily.

Varric placed a spoonful of porridge from the pot into a bowl and handed it to him. Dorian accepted it eagerly, wolfing down a good part of it before the porridge had cooled down and burning his tongue.

“Cassandra has gone to bring some more firewood. Blondie said he was going to the nearby stream for a wash. He shouldn’t be too long now.”

Before Varric could finish his sentence, the sound of leaves brushing against something moving in the bushes drew Dorian’s attention. Trevelyan appeared at the edges of the camp, his hair wet, and his shirt casually thrown on and unlaced. Fat drops of water fell from his darkened strands and arced down his face as he walked towards them.

Dorian let his bowl on the ground and stood up. His heart fluttered with excitement, but he tried to ignore it. “Inquisitor,” he said softly.

Trevelyan froze where he stood, his eyes widening with surprise when he saw him. A small smile of relief widened his lips. “Dorian,” he breathed. “You’re finally awake.”

“I am.” Dorian took a tentative step forward. Had Varric not been there, he would have certainly run to him and thrown his arms around his neck and kissed him within an inch of his life. Yet, he knew he had to restrain himself. He didn’t know it would be as hard as it was, though.

Trevelyan’s eyes ran over him, examining him. There were dark circles around them, and he looked tired and wrung out, but the half smile painted just at the edges of his lips made that familiar longing stir in Dorian’s chest. Trevelyan had stayed up all night for him. He had carried him all the way to that place to make sure he would be safe. He hadn’t left his side, not even when he knew Dorian would be alright, Varric had said.

“How is your wound?” Trevelyan asked him, concern furrowing his brow.

“I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Thank you.” Dorian smiled at him awkwardly. “How are you?”

Trevelyan gave him a small nod. “I’m alright.” He reluctantly peeled his eyes away from Dorian and turned to Varric. “As soon as Cassandra is back, we’ll be setting off.”

“Oh, good,” Dorian said, dusting his robes. “Where are we going?”

Trevelyan blinked at him. He seemed taken aback by Dorian’s question. “Varric, Cassandra and I will be going to the place Maliphant told us the Red Templars are,” he said quietly, but firmly. “You’ll be staying here.”

“What?” Dorian gasped.

Trevelyan took a sharp breath. “Varric, Cassandra and I will-“

“I heard you the first time,” Dorian cut him off. “You were going to leave me behind?”

Trevelyan’s expression darkened as he looked at him. His fists clenched at his sides. “You were at the brink of the death, Dorian. You can’t come with us. We don’t know what we will be facing.”

Dorian could feel his temper flaring with every word. “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. I’m part of this mission, and I am coming with you.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“It wasn’t a question. It’s a declaration.”

“But you just woke up! You’ve barely been up for an hour and now you want to get in a fight?”

“Yes.”

Trevelyan huffed, running his hands through his wet hair, sending water droplets flying in all directions. “Do you want to get yourself killed?” he growled. “Is that what you want?”

His anger made Dorian pause. The last thing he had wanted when he saw him mere moments before was to start an argument, and in front of Varric, no less. Still, annoyance burned hot inside him. There was nothing that infuriated him and made him want to do something more than being told he couldn’t do it.

He pursed his lips stubbornly and stared back at Trevelyan in defiance. “I won’t be left behind. You have no right to stop me.”

“I have every right to stop you!” Trevelyan snapped. “I can bloody well _order_ you to stay behind!”

Trevelyan might as well have kicked him in the gut. It would have certainly hurt less. Dorian’s mouth fell open, his stomach falling past his knees. Varric was simply staring at them both, barely taking a breath, glancing from Dorian to Trevelyan and back. Trevelyan’s scowl was the deepest Dorian had seen it yet, his chest heaving with his angry breaths. Rivulets of water ran languidly down his neck, glistening silver in the light of the morning, but the fire in his eyes could set him aflame.

Dorian folded his arms before his chest, taking on a cool expression, just as his heart threatened to jump out of his throat. “Order me, then.”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened, and whatever he had been about to say died in his mouth. With a low throaty growl that sounded more as if coming from a cornered animal than a human, he turned around, stalking away from them both and into his tent, snapping the tent flap closed behind him.

If there was ever a time for smoke to come out of Dorian’s ears, he was sure that would be it. He felt like he was about to be on fire, at the same time that a gaping, freezing emptiness spread slowly inside him.

Dorian was only vaguely aware of Varric uncomfortably shifting on his feet behind him as he stared at the entrance of Trevelyan’s tent.

The dwarf cleared his throat, careful not to raise his voice too much. “If you’re coming with, perhaps you should finish that breakfast and have a healing potion. Wouldn’t want you to collapse an hour in.”

Dorian’s stomach was tied in knots, and food was the last thing on his mind, but he let out a heavy sigh as he nodded. He sat back down next to the fire and half-heartedly forced a spoonful of porridge in his mouth, just as he could feel his anger boiling steadily inside him. He tried not to think of the look on Trevelyan’s face, or the way he had stormed off, or that he was still just a few feet away. He swallowed, determined to finish that bowl of porridge and down that healing potion, and more besides. He would not fall flat on his face, or get killed. Not if he could help it. Dorian would be damned if he proved that arrogant oaf right!

The trek to the place where Maliphant had indicated was mostly in silence. There was an uncomfortable tension in the air, that even Cassandra felt, even though she hadn’t been there during their fight. She had showed up shortly after with an armful of logs and some wild weeds safe for eating, the sweat on her brow making her face glow in the bright sun. She had looked at Dorian quizzically when she noticed the irritation on his face, but when Trevelyan finally emerged from his tent, his back straight and rigid as a board and all tight lips and icy glances, she had simply looked at Dorian and said nothing. The Seeker understood way more than she let on, Dorian realised with mild interest.

Trevelyan hadn’t spared a glance in his direction, walking several paces ahead of them all. Varric had tried to engage them all in merry and idle conversation, and Cassandra even indulged him once or twice, but since Dorian only had sour, single worded responses to offer him and Trevelyan didn’t seem to notice him at all, all talk had died soon after.

Dorian simply walked on, seething with frustration. Trevelyan was not going quite as fast as he normally did, but their pace was still challenging for Dorian, who felt weak and breathless despite the health potions he had drunk before they started. Even so, he gritted his teeth and pressed on, refusing to even request a stop to catch his breath. If Trevelyan was stubborn once, Dorian could outlast him ten times over.

The sun was slowly descending towards the west, casting a soft orange glow upon the ancient forest when they finally reached where Maliphant had told them. It was a large clearing leading into what looked like a cave. The sound of people talking and carts milling about gave them all stop. Trevelyan crouched low, and motioned sharply for them to do the same.

They had stopped by a tall rock, overlooking the cave entrance and the area around it. A barricade of sorts had been set up around the entrance, and several guards had been stationed outside, their plate armour glinting in the setting sun and their hands ready to grip their sword hilts any moment. The tell-tale red veins around their eyes and mouths told them all they needed to know – that was the Red Templar lair.

They were carefully watching the handful of servants carting in supplies, and what looked like casks filled with red lyrium. Even from that safe distance, Dorian could feel its sickening effects. His head felt heavy, the uncomfortable pressure around his temples growing. That, and the lyriums’s nauseating pull, that revolted him at the same time that its eerie song called irresistibly to him, was enough to make him want to empty the contents of his stomach, but he clenched his jaws tightly. He would endure it all in silence, if only to prove Trevelyan wrong.

Trevelyan’s hands dropped to his belt, checking for his daggers, like he always did. A frown of determination was on his face, his features instantly turning hard, his eyes fixed on his target. He turned around to speak to them, when Cassandra’s surprised expression stopped him.

A man came out of the cave to give the guards a clipped order, and they all stood at attention as soon as they saw him. He was tall and dark, his black hair thick and meticulously oiled. The staff on that man’s back was intricately carved and looked sturdy and well made, and the golden rings on his fingers shone as he moved. Dorian’s stomach lurched as he watched him.

He crouched low besides Trevelyan, leaning close to his ear. “This man is from Tevinter. He looks like a Venatori.”

Trevelyan’s eyes were wide when he turned to look at him. “Are you certain?” he breathed.

Dorian nodded. Trevelyan glanced at the mage, his brows furrowing.

“The Red Templars are working with the Venatori here, then?”

Cassandra squatted at Trevelyan’s other side. “This is not good, Inquisitor. Whatever it is they’re doing, we need to stop them.”

Trevelyan’s frown was so deep, it carved deep lines in his forehead. His thumb brushed over his ring as he watched the Red Templars.

“It doesn’t look that there’s too many of them,” Trevelyan whispered. “But we can’t know how many Venatori are inside the cave. And the red lyrium…” He shot a sidelong frown at Dorian, his lips tightening in a line.

Dorian’s heart did a small, awkward flip in his chest with the concern in his gaze, yet he schooled his features to placidity. “I’ll be fine. We can take them,” he said with determination. “Just say the word.”

Trevelyan’s eyes lingered on him for just a second too long, or so Dorian thought, before looking away, a grim expression on his face. “We should wait until sundown. Attacking when they least expect us might give us an advantage.”

Waiting for the sun to fall below the thick treeline took longer than Dorian would have thought. His agitation, paired with Trevelyan’s sullen and broody demeanour, did not make it any easier for him to sit still and hold his breath until the world grew dark. No one knew what they would be encountering after they got in, after all. Those guards didn’t look particularly friendly or well-meaning either.

Night came, as surely as one would expect. As soon as the first nightbird cooed, and the last crates were carted in the cave and the servants left, Trevelyan signalled for them to move. They walked silently amongst the trees- as silently as they could, anyway. No one else in their party was as good as Trevelyan was at stealth. He moved easily, fluidly, like a panther, his form melting into the night. It was only his eyes that stood out from amidst the shadows, the moonlight glittering in them.

He paused abruptly, checking his surroundings, and they all stopped behind him. He turned around to glance at them and give them a sharp nod before crouching low once again and stalking soundlessly away.

They all already knew what that meant; Trevelyan had laid out his plan before they started. He would sneak amidst the guards first, taking them as quickly and quietly as he could so that the Venatori wouldn’t be alerted to their presence. Cassandra had objected, but Trevelyan had been adamant, and at length she had conceded. They had to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, and that wouldn’t happen if all of them charged into a bloody battle. He was the only one amongst them with the skills needed to take the guards out silently, under cover of darkness.

Dorian’s stomach tightened as he watched him draw further away. He loathed to admit, even to himself, that he wanted nothing more than to be with him there, no matter what sort of enemy he would be up against. It was unfair, surely, for him to charge head first into battle while they waited in relative safety.

Cassandra seemed to share his opinion, her eyes peeled for any signal, any indication that something was wrong. The seasoned warrior was not used to staying behind and waiting. Her fingers were wrapped around her sword hilt, and she looked like a spring that had been wound too tightly, seconds away from bursting forth.

Dorian’s breath came somewhat easier when the form of the first guard fell. The sound he made was like a muffled groan, throaty and deep as if it were coming from the depths of his soul, only to die on Trevelyan’s hand, firmly placed upon his lips. A lightning quick strike underneath the man’s breastplate, and he had fallen down on his knees, face first on the soft grass.

It wasn’t much different with the second and third guards. They both fell not very far apart from each other as Trevelyan caught up with them, swiftly and silently as a deadly shadow. A wave of relief washed over Dorian when Trevelyan finally signalled for them to come closer. They approached just as he was wiping his blade on the cloak of one of the fallen guards.

“That was quick,” Varric whispered.

Trevelyan didn’t even respond to that as he placed his dagger back in its scabbard. He looked rather pale underneath his dark hood.

“Too quick,” he replied. “I fear about what we may be encountering inside.”

Cassandra and Varric exchanged a quick glance, but Dorian didn’t join them. His eyes were fixed on Trevelyan’s, and his lips that were twisted in a pensive frown.

“You think there might be more guards inside?” Varric asked.

“It’s not that,” Trevelyan said, shaking his head. “I don’t like all this secrecy. Venatori are known to be cautious. Any time we’ve seen them, they had at least as many guards as they were. To be here, in such a remote place, with barely any guards at all…” He shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Cassandra thumbed the hilt of her sword, glancing towards the cave entrance. Determination was painted on her features, visible even in the near complete darkness. “We can’t pull back now. We have to get in and see what’s going on.”

Trevelyan nodded grimly, his frown getting deeper. He took a step forward, intending to get ahead of them all again, when Cassandra’s outstretched arm stopped him. “No, Inquisitor. We all go in together this time. No matter what happens, we need to stay close to each other.”

Dorian could almost see the gears turning in Trevelyan’s mind, trying to find a way to deter Cassandra from her plan. But evidently he knew, just as well as Dorian, and as well as anyone who was familiar with the Seeker, that when she got something into her head, there was no getting it out.

He nodded again, much more slowly this time, and shot a backwards glance at Dorian. “Alright,” he whispered, addressing all of them. “We go in together. Make sure you stay close.”

And so, almost shoulder to shoulder, they walked inside the cave.

The long, narrow passage was dark and gloomy, apart from a lone torch that was lit somewhere in the distance. They moved slowly, cautiously, wary of even the slightest sound. The cave was a deep one, full of winding passages that crossed and split into more passages. Not once or twice were they met with a dead-end, and had to double back and find their way again, choosing different paths in hopes of finding what they were looking for.

Dorian had almost lost hope that they would ever find their way around in that place, when, taking a left turn at a crossroads, they heard vague chanting from somewhere close.

They all exchanged wary looks before heading towards the sound. The passage took a downwards slope, and they descended deeper into the bowels of the cave. The air felt cooler and moist there, and a little bit too stale for Dorian’s liking. The entire place made him uneasy, and he could feel the sickening pull of the red lyrium as he moved closer to the chanting.

“We’re close,” Varric said, and Cassandra nodded, almost excitedly. Her hand flew to her sword hilt, and Dorian knew at that moment that she was more than eager to fight her way through whatever they would be encountering and get out of there as fast as she could. Dorian couldn’t say that he didn’t share the sentiment.

They walked on, until they chanting sounded as if coming from the next cavern chamber. Trevelyan stopped short, motioning for them to get close. They all huddled around him, holding their breaths.

“Cassandra and I will go in first. Varric, you’ll cover our flanks. Dorian.” He looked at him then, his eyes like dark, whirling pools, boring holes into him. “You’ll stay as far away as you can. Pick them apart from afar. Don’t come near under any circumstances.”

Dorian slightly pursed his lips at that, but said nothing as he nodded his assent. To ignore the fact that he wasn’t in his best condition would be madness on his part. Besides, Trevelyan, if anything, had a real knack for battle plans.

With a sharp breath, Trevelyan turned around, eyeing Cassandra who returned his look with a grim nod.

The room they entered was a large one, the cave ceiling going far beyond and vanishing into the darkness. Other than the few torches there was no other light source, the people in that room shrouded in an eerie, soft orange light. Six or seven mages were huddled close together, their heads bent down, chanting softly under their breaths. Dorian’s pricked up, trying to catch what they were saying. The chant sounded oddly familiar, but strange at the same time. He recognised some of the verses from books written in Ancient Tevene, threadbare remains of rituals that had been lost to time. But they had been twisted and mingled with others that Dorian was sure he had never heard before and did not make much sense to him. There were markings on the floor, too, dark and glistening, as if they had been painted on with blood. Wooden crates were stacked and lined up at the far side of the room. From the uncomfortable tightness around his temples, Dorian could tell that they were filled with red lyrium.

A glance around the far reaches of the room made Dorian’s breath catch in his throat. Beyond the mages, just outside the painted circle, were people, tied up in chains fastened to the rock walls. They were silent, their heads drooping onto their chests as if asleep. Drugged, most likely. So that was what the Red Templars were doing with all the people they had been kidnapping. The thought sent an icy shiver down his spine.

One of the mages stood up, walking silently towards one of the prisoners. The lock of the shackles around the prisoner’s wrist was opened with a click, and the man was brought forward. It was a young man, tall and well-built, but he brought no resistance to the mage’s urgings. His eyes looked glazed over and empty, void of thought or emotion. He simply stared at the mages, who stared back at him.

A tall mage, her dark hair with wings of white at her temples pinned carefully up on her head, stood up, a dagger in her hands. Still chanting, she took the man’s hand in hers and slid her blade along his palm. Blood, red and thick, welled up from the wound, but the man didn’t even flinch. Dipping her finger in the blood, she touched his forehead, drawing a strange marking on it.

Her movements were steady, deliberate, as if she had done it several times before. The other mages did not bat an eyelid as she kept on the chant, until the blood on the man’s forehead flared bright red, burning into his skin. His eyes rolled back so only the white could be seen, guttural sounds coming from deep in his throat.

Just when Dorian thought he had seen way too much, a shadow dashed past them, well-sharpened blades glinting in the eerie light. Trevelyan didn’t miss a moment before setting off one of his smoke bombs, engulfing the room in a shroud of black mist. The mages exclaimed in surprise at the sudden intrusion, their robes shuffling as they stood up. Dorian couldn’t see the woman that had carved the blood markings on the prisoner’s forehead, but he could hear her panicked exclamations.

It wasn’t long after the first mage fell that magical barriers flashed in the half dark and offensive spells were cast. The Venatori were ruthless and well trained, and wasted no time before going directly for the kill. Lightning bolts flew left and right, fireballs and arcane missiles cutting through the air, their spells getting more and more aggressive by the second.

What ensued after that was pure chaos. Cassandra lunged at them, sword and shield brandished, her aura flaring bright in the darkness of the room. Dorian couldn’t make out anyone amidst the smoke and the panicked movements. His heart was beating frantically as he looked around, searching for some sign of Trevelyan in the chaos. He almost took a step closer, but forced himself to hold his ground. It wouldn’t do if he got caught in the roiling waves of panic that seemed to wash through the Venatori.

Gathering his focus around him, Dorian took a deep breath. He chose his spells carefully, meticulously. There was no room for error now. He added to the onslaught by hurling fireball after fireball at the Venatori. Watching them scrambling about with their robes on fire was, admittedly, quite a sight.

The dark haired woman proved to be the most skilled of them all. She casted incessantly, her barrier never seeming to burst or crackle, even after minutes of it being cast. Her ice glyphs were swiftly summoned, and their forms so precise, that Dorian wondered who her mentor might have been back in Tevinter. Perhaps it was someone he knew. Perhaps she herself was someone he had seen or spoken to at one of the many conferences of magic Alexius used to take him to when he was under his tutelage.

The thought filled him with a vague sadness, and a longing for times long past, but he stamped it out forcefully. This was no place or time to be moping about how simple and hopeful things were, once.

Besides, he could see that both Trevelyan and Cassandra were getting tired. Trevelyan moved somewhat slower than he had only moments before and his leather armour was singed in several places, and the mail on Cassandra’s right arm had been torn right off from the dark haired woman’s ruthless attacks.

A well timed mana surge spell was just what was needed to bring the woman to her knees. Dorian’s spell sapped her of her energy, making it impossible for her to even cast. Dorian wasn’t fond of using spells like that, preferring to keep to his usual offensive spells when he could help it, but he couldn’t deny their usefulness. He felt the woman’s mana seeping into his bones, instantly reinvigorating him.

He sorely needed it, he knew; he wasn’t quite sure how long he would be able to keep up attacking like this. His mana pool was significantly smaller than other times, and he could already feel his earlier injury nipping slightly as he moved. Not to mention the lyrium that, even quite far away from him, was an insistent irritation.

Choosing the words of his next spell carefully, he cast a fire glyph on the floor right underneath where the woman had fallen. The symbols on it weren’t quite as precise as hers had been, he noticed with faint annoyance, but it would do the job for now. The glyph was activated just as the woman tried to scramble away, setting off an explosion that rang all around the cavern. She screamed as she burnt, her cries splitting Dorian’s ear drums. Thankfully, Cassandra’s blade soon ended her misery.

As soon as the woman lay dead on the floor, one of the mages, a younger looking one, with a burn scar over the side of his face, let out a sharp yelp. He ran away from the battle and towards the prisoners at the far end of the room. Dorian watched him curiously as he tripped on his robes and fell flat on his face, then scrambled up again, barely stopping to glance behind him. The edge of a small sharpened blade glistened in his hand as he pulled it from his belt, and only then did Dorian realise what the man was about to do.

“Varric!” Dorian yelled frantically, preparing to blast the mage with fire. “He’s going to kill the prisoners! Get him!”

Varric, closer to the man than Dorian was, fitted a bolt through Bianca hastily. The mage was quick and agile despite his panic, ducking at the very last second to avoid Dorian’s fireball. He fell on the floor and crawled towards the prisoners, who were as unresponsive as they had been minutes before. Blood flowed bright red from the first one’s neck, staining the dirty linen shirt he was wearing crimson. The mage growled in pain when one of Varric’s arrows lodged itself in his shoulder, but he didn’t even blink before he dragged his blade across the next one’s throat. His robes were starting to be seeped in blood as he crawled to the next prisoner, a young girl, barely older than twenty, her filthy, matted hair the colour of wheat and hanging messily before her face.

Dorian’s voice trembled lightly as he cast his next spell, a weak frost spell, just to keep the mage in place. Sending a fireball flying now would just as likely kill the girl as it would the mage. The man’s dagger stopped just an inch away from her throat as his hand was encased in ice. His eyes, so wide in his panic Dorian thought they would pop right out of his head, fixed themselves on Varric, who quickly placed another arrow in his crossbow and brought it up to his eyes.

The mage’s face was twisted in agony as he struggled against the ice. His dagger was trembling along with his hand, pressing weakly against the girl’s skin. A drop of blood arced down her neck, just as another arrow sank in the mage’s back. He let out a piercing wail that cut through the large cavern. The frost spell evaporated and he collapsed on the floor, blood pooling slowly around him.

Another arrow to make sure he wouldn’t be getting back up, and Varric gave Dorian a quick nod as he turned towards the battle that was still holding strong in the middle of the room. Trevelyan and Cassandra had managed to thin out the mages considerably, their lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor all around them. There was only one of them left, a short, bearded fellow that seemed to be putting up a considerable fight.

Trevelyan slashed at him just as Cassandra tried to bash him with her shield, but a well timed spell shot him several feet away, his robes fluttering as he moved. Cassandra lunged towards him again, but he managed to avoid her again, dashing towards Trevelyan instead. A sword materialized in his hand.

“No!” Dorian yelled, gripping his staff. The Venatori was too far away, and Dorian’s spell wouldn’t catch him in time. He had to do something, something-

Desperately, he called a barrier around Trevelyan. The mage’s attack slid off of it with an electric sound, pushing him back. Trevelyan swiftly recovered from his momentary shock, lunging at the mage. The Venatori’s barrier went up just in time to deflect Trevelyan’s daggers.

He held his own quite well under Trevelyan’s attacks, that were soon joined by Cassandra’s. He was bleeding from several gashes that Cassandra and Trevelyan had managed to inflict on him, but he was strong and skilled, that much Dorian could admit.

Dorian prepared to cast a frost spell on the mage to incapacitate him long enough for Cassandra and Trevelyan to cut him down, when a loud, deafening bang echoed in the cavern. The sudden explosion that flashed around the mage was so bright it blinded him, and Dorian instinctively shielded his eyes from it. When he opened them again, Cassandra and Trevelyan were both knocked back, just as the mage collapsed on the floor.

Dorian’s heart was seized in an iron grip as he watched Trevelyan slide back with the force of the explosion, crashing against a stack of crates along one side of the cavern wall. The crates broke with the impact, red lyrium crystals gushing forth as Trevelyan fell down, face first on the ground.

Without even thinking, Dorian ran towards him. Trevelyan was struggling to get up, his hair darkened with blood on one side of his head. He lifted his face to see Dorian approaching him, and his eyes widened.

“No!” he yelled. “Stay back!”

Dorian paid no heed to his warnings. His heart was thrumming so hard against his chest that he didn’t even think about the red lyrium, spilled all around Trevelyan.

He was only a few feet away when the insistent headache became impossible to bear. It was like a vice had tightened around his temples, the blood in his skull pulsating in sync with the sickly red glow of the lyrium. Voices -no, whispers, hundreds of voices whispering in his ears- suddenly flooded his senses, crawling all along his skin.

The world swam around him, and try as he might, he couldn’t make his eyes focus. His earlier exhaustion and pain felt as if they had been multiplied, making his knees ache and tremble. He stopped where he was, afraid to take another step lest he collapse.

Dorian thought he heard Trevelyan groaning as he pushed himself up, and a faint whisper coming from where the Venatori had fallen. He turned around to glance at him, blinking blearily through the pain. The mage’s eyes, fixed on him as he muttered the words for a spell, were the last thing he saw before light shone on the floor right underneath him.

Dorian instinctively turned to Trevelyan, whose face suddenly looked drained from all colour. The patterns of a glyph started forming, their eerie light and the whispers from the fade coming as if from far away. Dorian tried to move, but he couldn’t- it was as if he had been frozen in place.

Before he could realise what was happening, something slammed hard against him, forcefully thrusting him aside. The sudden movement activated the glyph, and the explosion that followed was blinding and deafening. It was all a blur of sound and movement and extreme heat, and he felt his face burning with the force of the fiery blast.

He crashed on the floor with an intensity that knocked the air from his lungs. Trevelyan landed heavily atop him, shielding him from the flames with his body.

With his face pressed against the leather of Trevelyan’s armour, Dorian fought hard to draw breath. He blinked a few times, forcing his mind to focus. Trevelyan’s scent was warm and reassuring, even as the smell of burning wood from the crates and the seared leather of his armour threatened to overpower his senses.

Slowly, and with visible effort, Trevelyan pushed off him. He sat back on his knees, his hands pressed on the floor as he trembled. The armour on his back was almost completely charred, and had he not been wearing his cowl, the sides of his face would have surely been burnt off too. Dorian sat up next to him, coughing violently from the smoke and dust that was floating about.

A muffled groan from somewhere to their right drew their attention. Cassandra had sank her sword deep into the Venatori’s chest and his lifeless eyes were staring straight into hers as she drew her blade out, letting him bleed on the stone floor. She stood for a moment, swaying lightly, her face and armour smudged with dirt and blood.

Varric appeared right beside her, admittedly looking the best of all four. His armour had been burned in a couple places where the Venatori had managed to get him, but altogether he seemed quite alright, all things considered.

With much effort, Trevelyan stood up, groaning. He extended a hand to him and Dorian took it, hauling himself up. Trevelyan’s eyes glided over him, searching for injuries.

“Were you hurt?” he asked, his voice edged with worry.

“No,” Dorian replied. “But you are.” He reached inside his pocket for a healing potion, and Trevelyan, for once, accepted it without comment. His fingers trembled slightly when he pulled out the cork and drank the contents in one long gulp.

Dorian rubbed at his eyes and inhaled deeply, hoping to clear his mind. He could still hear the whispers of the red lyrium, calling to him, but now that he was farther away he felt remotely better. He took a step back, hoping to put some more distance between him and the vile stuff.

For a long moment, they all looked about the room, taking in the strange markings on the floor. Cassandra stepped over a few of the Venatori’s bodies, not sparing them a single glance, until she reached the body of the young man. He was laying limply amongst the rubble and blood. She crouched down to examine him, two fingers at his throat checking for a pulse. Dorian walked over to her side, peeking over her shoulder.

“He doesn’t look very alive to me,” he told her thoughtfully.

Cassandra nodded grimly. “Other than the cut in his hand, he looks otherwise unharmed. He must have died as soon as we disrupted the ritual.”

Dorian looked at the glyphs on the floor, and the markings on the young man’s forehead. Some of them seemed familiar, just as the chant had, but he couldn’t quite make out what they were for. “I believe it’s some sort of mind control blood ritual they were trying to do. I can’t be certain, but it looks like one. Very powerful too, for him to die like that. It seems the spell was much too strong for him to bear.”

Trevelyan stalked close to them. He was limping slightly and his armour was almost in tatters, but his colour looked much better after the healing potion. “Do you think they’re doing experiments?”

“Most probably,” Dorian said, nodding. “The spell still looks quite crude… perhaps they have been trying to perfect it.” He glanced at the corner of the cave, where the prisoners were. His heart tightened at the sight of the ones the Venatori had managed to kill, but the girl looked safe and sound, if oblivious to everything happening around her. “We should do something about her, too.”

Cassandra’s lips were pinched bloodless as she stood up and walked towards the prisoners and the girl. Dorian stayed behind, jotting as much of the markings as he could on the small notebook he always kept on him, while Varric went through the Venatori’s pockets.

“This might be of help,” the dwarf said, handing him an old and crinkled piece of parchment. “It was all I could find, except for a few sovereigns. Oh, and some weird dried fruit. It looks like an apple, only it’s the wrong shape,” he mused, examining the fruit and bringing it close to his nose to sniff it.

“It’s dried quince,” Dorian said absently as he squinted at the scribbles and diagrams on the parchment. Like the chants and the markings on the floor, they looked vaguely familiar, their forms tugging at memories at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite remember where he had seen them. He folded the parchment carefully and placed it in his coat pocket. Perhaps he would be able to make some sense of it once they all returned to Skyhold.

Cassandra was trying, and failing, to wake the girl, while Trevelyan simply stared blankly at her. His gaze was bleak as he let his eyes drift over the multitude of corpses strewn on the floor.

“Should we bury them?” Dorian heard Cassandra asking him as she slowly stood up.

Trevelyan shook his head and let out a soft, resigned sigh. “There’s too many of them. It would take us hours to dig that many holes. We’ll take her to Fairbanks’ camp, in case she’s one of theirs,” he said, nodding towards the unconscious girl, “and drag the rest of the prisoners outside and burn them. You could say a prayer for them.”

Cassandra turned to glance warily at him, but there was no mockery in his tone, so she simply nodded appreciatively. Trevelyan didn’t seem to notice as he kept looking at the corpses.

“I don’t even know who these people are, but no one deserves such an end,” he said somberly, his thumb brushing over his ring. “The least we could do is try to restore some of the dignity that was robbed from them. As poor a consolation as that may be.”

No one spoke for a short while, until Varric interrupted the silence. “What about them?” he said, gesturing towards the Venatori, whose blood was slowly seeping into the porous stone.

Trevelyan shrugged dismissively. “They can be left to rot, for all I care. Our job here is done.”

Cassandra scoffed in agreement, leaning down and tossing the girl over her shoulder. She grunted only slightly as she straightened back up.

Dragging the lifeless bodies of the poor wretches to the surface was no small feat, especially with them all being so wrung out after the battle. By the time the cool night breeze blew on their faces, they were all sweating and panting with the effort.

Trevelyan’s brow and neck glistened in the silvery moonlight as he turned to leave. His cheeks were flushed, and the leather of his armour stretched over his chest with his heaving breaths. Dorian had to practically force himself to pry his eyes away from him, swallowing hard. He could still feel the awkwardness between them like a heavy, dark raincloud, hovering above. It certainly wouldn’t help to gawk at him, not when he barely seemed to want to glance in his direction at all.

Not that Dorian cared very much whether Trevelyan was looking at him or not. Because he didn’t. Of course he didn’t! The man was free to do as he pleased. He could frown and scowl and bark at everyone and everything for all Dorian cared, and it would make no difference to him. Absolutely no difference whatsoever.

His heart leapt into his throat when Trevelyan called his name.

“Dorian,” he said, in that usual serious voice of his, gazing at the cave’s entrance, “is there something you could do to make these stones collapse over the opening? Like… an explosion of some sort?”

Dorian glanced at the stones for a moment, considering. Then, with a carefully placed fire glyph, the stones collapsed with a thunderous roar, burying the cave entrance until there was hardly any trace of it.

“That should do it,” he said with a small, proud smile. Trevelyan’s eyes lingered on him only for a moment before he nodded sharply and turned away. Dorian had to suppress a small sigh of defeat as he followed.

A small pyre was built with some dried leaves and branches that they found nearby, and they lay the corpses atop them. With a simple fire spell, the pyre lit up, soon engulfing the bodies in flame. Cassandra’s prayer was short and solemn, interrupted occasionally by the loud crackling of the logs. Smoke rose, dark and oily, drifting languidly towards the even darker sky, its acrid smell heavy and sickening.

Trevelyan stood behind Cassandra, his hands clasped before him. He stared at the fire with unseeing eyes, a look of faint disgust on his face. As soon as Cassandra’s prayer was over, he took a step back towards the forested hill.

“We should get going,” he said sharply. “It’s getting late.”

Fairbanks’ camp was thankfully not very far away from where they were. Cassandra panted only slightly under the girl’s weight on her back, but no matter how many times Trevelyan offered to help her, the warrior shook her head animatedly. Dorian suspected it was as much a matter of pride for her as it was concern over Trevelyan, as her wayward glances at his tattered armour and his slight limp indicated. In the end, Trevelyan gave up trying to convince her, and instead resigned himself to sullenly walking ahead of them, cursing whenever he stumbled on raised roots and upturned rocks.

The guards at the entrance of the refugee camp gasped in surprise when they saw them all approaching, grimy and sweaty and with blood splattered all over their armours, and Cassandra carrying the woman on her back. Fairbanks was called swiftly, his eyes red and his hair loose about his face and mussed up from sleep. His brows were furrowed, the lines under his eyes deep as he nodded sharply for someone to take the girl from Cassandra.

He held up a lantern over her face once she was in one of his own men’s arms. “I remember her,” he said, nodding slowly. “She came to us about a month back. Has no family that I know of.” He looked at her a moment longer before he gestured for her to be taken inside the camp. His expression when he turned to Trevelyan was tight and guarded. “And you say none of the others survived?”

Trevelyan shook his head grimly. “None that we could find. The Venatori seem to have been… thorough.”

Fairbanks’ mouth twisted in horror, but he said nothing.

Trevelyan clenched and unclenched his fists. “Make sure to send your people to retrieve their remains soon. At first light, if possible. Before the Red Templars or the Venatori come to inspect.” He turned around to leave, then paused to glance at Fairbanks over his shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on the girl tomorrow. Don’t let anyone talk to her until I come. She might have information for me.”

Even in his tattered and bloodied armour, Trevelyan still looked every bit the lord the refugees expected to see. His presence was commanding, and his tone brooked no argument, and Fairbanks, who never seemed overly impressed by rank and power, appeared to understand that well.

“Very well, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice tight. He wasn’t pleased, not at all in fact, and that was plain to see from the consternation in his eyes. Sending his men to that place was probably the last thing he wanted, but he couldn’t well show it. Not after Trevelyan had gone to all that trouble to help his people. Or what was left of them, anyway.

Dorian didn’t know if they could trust him, no more than Fairbanks himself probably knew if he could trust them. The man’s gaze, when it settled on him, was cautious and examining. Dorian gave him a defiant look over his nose as he turned to follow Trevelyan out of the cave, making sure the glittering edge of his staff was clearly visible to all present.

No one was really in the mood for talk by the time they sat around the fire with their hastily prepared dinners of cheese and bread warmed over the fire. They were all filthy, sweaty and exhausted from the day they had had, and conversation was probably the last thing on everyone’s mind.

Trevelyan was grim and silent, more so than usual. Dorian found himself sneaking glances at him while he ate, hoping to catch his eye, even a little. But he never seemed to look anywhere else other than at the flames before him. He didn’t even protest too much when Cassandra insisted on checking the wounds on his back from the explosion earlier. He sullenly let her help him take his leather armour and his shirt off, and only winced once or twice as she rubbed elfroot ointment on some minor burns along his sides. He kept his mouth firmly shut, even when she complained under her breath about him never taking care of his injuries properly.

The sight of his bare torso, and even that sulky frown on his face, made Dorian’s heart thrum with longing, but he kept his eyes carefully away. Not that there was much else to look at. The darkness beyond their fire was thick and almost impenetrable, save for the weak moonlight. Dorian sighed as he chewed unenthusiastically on his tasteless bread and his block of hard, Fereldan cheese. He vaguely remembered how fervently he had insisted upon coming to the blasted place, and almost cursed himself.

Cassandra carefully put the lid back on the pot with the ointment and stood up as Trevelyan pulled his shirt back over his head. “You should all go to rest,” she said. “I’ll keep the first watch.”

“Absolutely not,” Trevelyan said. “You exerted yourself greatly today. You should go to bed. I’ll keep first watch.” Cassandra gave him an indignant look and prepared to protest, but a look from him stopped her. “That’s an order, Cassandra.”

Instead of arguing with him, the Seeker snapped her mouth shut and pouted - _pouted!_ \- before giving him a curt nod and stalking to her tent. Dorian almost shook his head in disbelief. What was going through that woman’s head was nobody’s business. Had Dorian not known any better, he would have thought that she was almost starting to warm up to him.

Varric attempted to lighten the mood after that, telling Trevelyan one of his many stories of Kirkwall and his good friend Hawke, but he wasn’t particularly successful either. There was no use trying to pry a word out of him when he got into those moods. Trevelyan barely seemed to listen to the dwarf’s jokes, let alone laugh at any of them. At length, Varric also retired, leaving Dorian and Trevelyan alone.

They sat staring at the fire for a long while, sitting well away from each other. The crackling of the logs and the distant nightlarks were the only sounds disturbing the quiet of the night. A faint breeze blew past them, and Dorian gathered his cloak closer around him. As warm and humid as that place could be in the day, it could just as easily turn nippy as soon as the sun set.

Trevelyan fished his flask out of his satchel and took a long sip, seemingly oblivious to his presence. He looked as if lost in thought, his brows furrowed, his gaze distant. Dorian knew that he probably didn’t want to talk at all, otherwise he would have said something, anything at all. He wasn’t quite sure if it was the cold that made him shiver like this, or the iciness that had settled between them. He knew that he should probably excuse himself instead of trying to talk, and possibly making matters worse, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do that.

He cleared his throat, shooting a wayward glance in his direction.

“Wonderful night, isn’t it? Just perfect for sitting out, gazing at the stars.”

Trevelyan didn’t respond as he continued staring at the fire. It was as if Dorian hadn’t spoken at all.

A long time passed, long enough for Dorian to think that perhaps he hadn’t heard him. He straightened up slightly, attempting to assume a casual tone.

“Those Venatori today put up a good fight. I’m surprised we all made it back in one piece,” he mused, letting his lips widen in a smile that he hoped was teasing.

Trevelyan glanced at him then, only for a moment, his frown getting deeper. The shadows from the fire danced across his face, making it looked as if it was carved of smooth, polished stone, the look in his eyes utterly unreadable. “So am I,” he said simply, and pressed his mouth shut once again.

His response didn’t invite much of a conversation, but Dorian was nothing if not persistent. He shifted just a little bit closer, yet still far enough away from him to make it seem as if there was a gulf between them. “You know,” he started, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for… for jumping in and pushing me out of the way back in that cave. If it weren’t for you, I would probably have been burned to a crisp.”

Trevelyan gently shook his flask, making the liquid inside it swirl. He rubbed the back of his neck, stubbornly avoiding looking at him. “There’s no need to thank me. I did what I had to do.”

His words sent a sharp pang of disappointment through Dorian. It suddenly felt as if he was banging his fist against a stone wall. He cleared his throat, wishing his voice didn’t sound as weak as he suddenly felt. “So you only did that because you had to?”

Trevelyan paused for a moment, then shrugged and took a long sip from his flask. The flames from the fire reflected in his dark blue eyes, like burning logs floating on deep, troubled waters.

Well. That was that.

Dorian could feel his unease building as he sat there, pretending to watch the fire, or the leaves rustling overhead, or absolutely anything else other than Trevelyan. He couldn’t shake that deep, gut-wrenching bitterness that had settled itself in his heart. Yet, at the same time, his irritation at Trevelyan’s sulkiness was more than he could bear.

He let out a sharp huff as he turned his body to face him, preparing himself for a fight. “Oh, go on. Just say it.”

Trevelyan shot him a sidelong frown. “Say what?”

“Just say ‘I told you so’. That I almost got myself killed, as you said I would. That I should have stayed back, as you told me to from the beginning.”

Trevelyan met his glare levelly, but there was no anger or affront in his eyes. There was something else, something akin to sadness, but Dorian couldn’t be sure. Not with that infernal shaking light that shrouded his face in shadows.

“I don’t want to say that,” he replied.

Dorian scoffed, latching on to his response, like a dog on a bone, desperate to release the tension that had built up. “Why not? I know that’s what you’re thinking. Perhaps you’ll feel better once you get it off your chest.”

“It’s not what I’m thinking,” Trevelyan said simply, quietly.

“Then what on earth _are_ you thinking?”

They stared at each other for a long while, Dorian absolutely fuming with anger, Trevelyan simply looking at him with that reticent frown of his, that didn’t betray even an inkling of his thoughts. He was so distant and closed off, that it made Dorian want to scream.

Trevelyan was the first to look away, just as Dorian had expected him to. He gazed wordlessly at the fire, twisting the ring on his finger with a stubborn insistence, as if that was the only thing in the world for him to do.

The silence that stretched between them was suddenly deafening. Try as he might, Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this lonely. Trevelyan had brought it up once again, that icy barrier that Dorian thought had been taken down for good, and there was nothing he could do to get through to him.

He knew he should let things be, but a question nagged at him. He gritted his teeth and fixed Trevelyan with a hard stare.

“Why is it so hard,” he said, his throat hurting with the effort of keeping his voice level, “for you to just talk to me?”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened slightly as he returned his gaze. His flask hovered before his mouth for a moment before he brought it back down. He looked at him quizzically, as if he couldn’t understand what on earth Dorian was talking about. But Dorian wasn’t going to be deterred by his confusion. Not this time.

“You said you cared about me.”

Trevelyan gave him a wounded look, his stony and sullen expression finally breaking. “I do.”

“Then why do you never tell me what you’re thinking? Why do you sulk and frown when things don’t go your way? Why do you push me away at the first chance you get?” Dorian’s voice was trembling now, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “Why do you always, _always_ shut me out?”

Trevelyan opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked away, beyond the fire, beyond their camp, his gaze bleak and indecipherable. His lips were pinched, and for a moment Dorian thought he saw the corners of his eyes glittering in the fire’s amber light.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

It wasn’t the answer Dorian was hoping for. It wasn’t anything, really. But at least it was earnest. Dorian could give him that.

The futility of their conversation grated at his nerves. He stood up, studiously dusting his cloak to avoid Trevelyan’s gaze. If he so much as looked at him, he knew he would crumble. “Very well, then. I wish you a good night.”

He turned around and walked away, leaving Trevelyan alone by the fire’s trembling light. The tent flap snapped shut behind him, and Dorian just stood there for a long moment, willing his heart to stop banging against his ribcage.

This was all too familiar. He might as well have been in the Exalted Plains, after a bloody skirmish that had almost cost him his life, with Trevelyan frowning and avoiding his gaze, exactly as he had done only moments before. His stomach sank when he remembered how similar their conversation had been, too.

After their kiss, Dorian had thought – no, he had hoped that things would change. That Trevelyan would finally let him into his life and his heart, and things would be just as they should be.

Well, perhaps things were now finally as they should be. Trevelyan sitting right outside but feeling as if they were miles apart, and Dorian getting back to being fantastic on his own once again.

He almost laughed at the bitter sarcasm that invaded his thoughts. Slowly, he took off his cloak and his dusty and grimy robes and slithered under his blanket. This had been a long day. He only wished that it wouldn’t be a long night as well.

Dorian didn’t know how long he had been lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling of his tent. It could have been hours, or it could have been minutes for all he could tell. Sleep wasn’t coming, nor were the incessant thoughts in his head relenting.

With an exasperated huff, he tossed the covers aside. His lamp was just by his bed, and he lit it with a flick of his fingers. The tent was washed with a soft, amber glow, the sturdy leather panels rippling languidly with the night breeze. His travel sack was right beside him, and he fished out the leather bound tome he had brought with him. It was old and dusty, with a heavy musty smell, but it was the only thing that could maybe help take his mind off… everything. Maybe.

His eyes scanned the elegant, gold-lined letters on its cover. _Essays on Functional Pyromancy, by Consus Aurelius_. He remembered the last time he had read that book. It was months before, after that dreadful meeting with his father. Trevelyan had been so different then. They had spoken about their families, about their pasts. Trevelyan had opened up to him, and even then Dorian remembered how awestruck he had been. As far as he knew, nobody else knew much about Trevelyan’s life before he had become the Herald, and the very thought had filled Dorian with an odd sense of pride. He had thought they had come closer then, that there was something separating Dorian from all the other people that Trevelyan usually frowned and scowled and barked orders at. Evidently, he was wrong.

With his bitterness threatening to engulf him, Dorian let out a sigh and opened the book on his lap. Pondering on the past and lamenting on his current situation would be no help. No help at all.

_The study of Pyromancy falls under the Primal School of Magic. Sometimes called the School of Power, the Primal School is the second of the Schools of Energy, balanced by Spirit, and concerns the most visible and tangible forces of nature-_

He hadn’t read two lines before his mind started drifting again. How had they reached that point again? How had everything turned out this way? Things had actually been going well for once. Dorian didn’t want to admit how much it pained him to realise that nothing, in fact, was going well anymore.

He should have known. Maker damn him, but he should have. He should have listened to that voice telling him that nothing good could ever last. Instead, he had allowed himself to hope, beyond hope, that perhaps, this once, things would be different for him. That perhaps even someone like him could have a chance at something… wonderful. 

Dorian let out a sigh and pinched his nose bridge hard enough to leave a mark. His eyes burned with the wrongness and injustice of it all, but he couldn’t allow himself to cry. If anything, he still had some slivers of pride left. For what, he could not say, but he still did.

Blinking hard, he forced himself to focus on the page again.

_The study of Pyromancy falls under the Primal School of Magic. Sometimes called the School of Power, the Primal School is the second of the Schools of-_

“Dorian?”

The faint whisper made him jump, and the book fell closed with a sudden slap. His heart lurched when he realised it was Trevelyan, just outside his tent. He could even see the faint outline of his form beyond the thick fabric.

The reasonable thing to do would be to never answer and pretend he was asleep. Dorian never claimed to be a reasonable man.

His mouth moved before he could stop it. “I’m- I’m awake,” he blurted out.

Trevelyan took a hesitant step in, the tent flap fluttering behind him. He just stood there motionless for a long moment, staring at him. He seemed lost and distraught, like a child that had lost his way and stepped into the wrong household.

Dorian simply looked at him, lost for words. Trevelyan returned his look, and Dorian could see the hurt in his features. Perhaps, he thought, and something in his stomach fluttered at the thought, he had been just as wounded by their row as Dorian had.

“You asked me…” he started hesitantly. His voice was so low, Dorian had to strain to hear him. “You wanted to know what I was thinking.”

Dorian blinked at him, curiosity sparking inside him. “I did,” he said after a moment, straightening up.

Trevelyan took another step closer, kneeling down beside Dorian’s bedroll. His eyes glowed eerily in the weak light from the lamp.

“I can’t stop thinking about that day. The day when Maliphant attacked you. There was a moment there that I thought… I thought I would lose you. That moment keeps playing in my head, over and over. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky sigh. He looked weary, gaunt, wrung out. His pale blonde locks hung limply about his face, and there were still dirt smudges on his cheek from their fight with the Venatori, and a bit of dried blood clinging to the wound on the side of his head. There was no scowl or stubborn frown twisting his features now, and he just looked… defeated.

Dorian’s chest tightened as he watched him, so much that it hurt. He had known Trevelyan for so long, he realised with a pang of guilt, yet he didn’t really know him at all.

Almost instinctively, he slithered closer to him, helplessly drawn to him like a fleck of iron to a magnet. Trevelyan moved closer too, reaching out to cup Dorian’s cheek.

“What can I do,” he whispered, “to keep you safe?”

“I don’t want you to keep me safe,” Dorian said, his pulse thumping madly in his throat. “Just _be_ with me.”

Without stopping to think, he closed the distance between them, placing his lips on Trevelyan’s. They parted easily under his, and Dorian held on to him tightly, afraid to let go. It was as if he hadn’t tasted him in weeks, months, eons, and his soul was aching for him with an intensity that scared him.

For a brief moment, he feared that Trevelyan would pull back, perhaps try to get out of his grasp. Instead, he wrapped his arms around him and drew him close, and suddenly there was no one else in the world but him. Just Trevelyan, and his soft hands, and the plushness of his lips, and the sweet, sharp scent of his body enveloping him, and Dorian could feel all his desire and longing for him that had seized his body and his soul for so long coursing through his veins, lighting a fire inside him.

Trevelyan moaned softly against his mouth, pulling him onto his lap. Dorian’s hands found their way to the back of his neck as he deepened the kiss. It suddenly all felt so real to him, like a switch had been turned, filling the world with light and colour and sound, and he could feel everything, every single one of Trevelyan’s touches, with every fibre of his being.

And he _wanted_ him. Damn him, but he wanted him, all of him, right then and there.

He tugged at the hem of Trevelyan’s shirt, sliding his palms under the fabric to touch the soft, taut skin underneath. Trevelyan threw his arms up, helping him take it off, their lips separating only for a moment as his shirt was pulled hurriedly over his head and tossed to the side.

Slowly, almost reverently, Dorian let his palms glide over the smooth planes of his back. His muscles rippled under his fingertips as he moved, pulling Dorian closer to him. His skin was interrupted by several scars, some deep and ragged, others barely more than nicks. It was all so strange and new. It was also achingly familiar, as if he had touched him like this a million times before, as if his fingers were made to smooth over the curves of his body. He felt his entire being buzzing with excitement, as if waves of electricity were running through him.

He couldn’t quite hide his impatience when he pushed Trevelyan onto his back on the hard, lumpy mattress of his bedroll and straddled him. Trevelyan’s hands slid from his ankles to his calves, up his thighs and under the hem of the light cotton shirt he wore for sleep. Dorian sat up for just a moment to pull it off and throw it carelessly on the floor, and lowered himself back down atop Trevelyan’s bare chest. He shivered when Trevelyan ran his palms over his sides, soft fingers tracing his ribs. There were finally no barriers of fabric between their bodies, nothing else but skin touching skin.

Dorian let his mouth trail along Trevelyan’s jaw, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck. He felt his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly, his hands about Dorian’s hips tightening. His chest rose and fell swiftly with his breaths as Dorian moved ever downward, kissing and licking and biting every inch of him. The skin of his stomach was smooth and taut, and dipped softly just underneath his ribcage, and Dorian thought he felt it prickling when he let his fingers slither down, underneath the opening of his breeches.

“Dorian,” Trevelyan said, his voice somewhat choked.

Dorian hummed softly in response as his lips followed the thin trail of soft blond hair leading to his navel. He took a deep breath, letting Trevelyan’s sweet, musky scent fill his lungs, but Trevelyan propped himself up on his elbows, forcing him to stop.

“Dorian,” he said again. “Wait.”

Dorian lifted his head reluctantly, to see that usual sullen expression on Trevelyan’s face, his brows furrowed as he looked at him.

His blood ran cold. “What’s wrong?”

“No- nothing’s wrong,” he said quickly, noticing Dorian’s bewildered stare. “I just… Before we do anything more, I… I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

Dorian froze, blinking at him. Of all the times he had wanted to hear Trevelyan apologise, that must have been the last. He huffed impatiently and made as if to push him back onto the mattress, only to be stopped by Trevelyan’s palm on his chest.

“Please,” he insisted. “I need to tell you this.”

Dorian let out a soft sigh and sat back. Trevelyan’s scent still lingered in his nostrils, and the sight of his bare chest mere inches away from him aroused him almost to the point of torture, but he made himself sit still and listen.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning,” Trevelyan said quietly. “And I’m sorry that I… that I sulk when I’m upset, and that I shut you out. It’s not your fault I act this way. It has nothing to do with you. It’s… it’s me. I can’t help it. I don’t know how.” He let out a shaky breath and fixed his eyes on his. “But I’ll try to change. I promise. For you, I’ll do anything.”

His voice was barely a whisper, but Dorian could hear that solemnity and that childlike earnestness in his tone that he had heard only few times before. It was tender and honest and decisive, and just a touch naïve, and so undeniably him, that he couldn’t help the warm, tender smile that widened his lips.

“I don’t want you to change,” he said, reaching out and gently brushing a lock of hair away from his brow. “Especially not for me. Just… talk to me when you feel this way. That is all I ask.” He paused to give him a mischievous grin. “And perhaps try to be less of an arrogant, stubborn oaf sometimes. How does that sound?”

Trevelyan huffed a small laugh. “I think I can do that.”

Dorian leaned in, and this time, Trevelyan didn’t stop him. He kissed him again, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling him close, so close he could feel his heart beating against his chest.

The world tipped over when he was suddenly flipped on his back. Trevelyan was lying on top of him, his hair brushing Dorian’s face. He stared up at him, swallowing thickly.

“What?” Trevelyan said, staring back at him.

“Nothing,” Dorian replied quickly. “I just… Well, I didn’t know you were so strong.”

Trevelyan’s laugh was deep and throaty, the sound reverberating through Dorian. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, it seems.”

“That’s true.” Dorian smoothed his palms slowly over the defined muscles in his arms, the curve of his shoulders, the dip in his collarbone. “Remind me to send my thanks to Heir when we get back to Skyhold.”

Trevelyan chuckled as he leaned down to softly catch Dorian’s lips with his. The weight of Trevelyan’s body between his legs was enough to heat his blood to boiling, and he opened his mouth, seeking more. He brought his hand up to cradle Trevelyan’s neck, his tongue prying his lips apart.

Their kisses were hungry, exploratory, possessive. Dorian could feel him hardening with ever touch, every slide of his lips over his own, every soft roll of his hips. Dorian reached down between them, his hand slithering under the waistband of Trevelyan's breeches. His fingers found something warm and smooth and hard, and promptly wrapped around it, and Trevelyan groaned into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispered breathlessly. “Dorian…”

Dorian slid his fist over his length, pumping him slowly, relishing in Trevelyan’s soft gasps. He moaned when Trevelyan bit his bottom lip, allowing more of his tongue to delve in, and only then did he remember that Cassandra and Varric were only a few feet away, the only thing separating them the fabric of their tents. It did not provide much in terms of sound proofing.

He absently considered perhaps telling Trevelyan that they should stop, but the thought went away just as swiftly as it had come. Dorian had to admit that even if Cassandra and Varric were sleeping right next to them, he wasn't sure he could have brought himself to care much at that moment.

His own breeches were feeling a size too small, and he arched his hips forward, begging for some friction. He pulled back, just enough to whisper into Trevelyan's ear.

"I want you," he said breathlessly. “Please, I want you now.”

Trevelyan paused for a moment, his eyes darting to the tent’s entrance before looking back at him. "Are you sure?" he asked hoarsely. "The others could hear us."

Dorian shook his head and surged forward. He couldn’t bear the distance between them. "I don't care," he murmured against his lips. He smoothed his curled fingers down Trevelyan’s length, eliciting another muffled groan from him. "Please."

Trevelyan wanted it too, Dorian could tell. He was flushed and slightly panting as he reached down to undo the laces on Dorian’s breeches, and Dorian helped him pull them off hurriedly and chucked them on the floor, along with the rest of his clothes.

He sat back, kneeling between Dorian’s legs. He let his eyes roam over his body as he was splayed naked before him. His face was slightly flushed, and his lips glistened with their shared saliva, and Dorian was certain that he had never seen anyone as beautiful as him.

He shivered when Trevelyan ran his palms down the insides of his thighs. When he felt the velvety warmth of his mouth enveloping him, he had to press his hand hard against his lips to stifle his moan. He twisted his other hand in the sheets as Trevelyan took him in deeper and deeper, bringing him closer to the edge with each swipe of his smooth tongue.

A slick finger circled his entrance, and Trevelyan slid his lips off him, planting soft kisses on his stomach and his chest as he came back up to claim his mouth once again. Dorian didn’t realise he had been holding his breath until Trevelyan exhaled shakily against his lips, pushing a digit inside him, then another. He pumped in and out of him steadily, and Dorian gasped and writhed as a white-hot current rushed through him, threatening to swallow him whole. Choked, muffled moans rose up from the depths of him, and Trevelyan drank them all, his tongue twining with his.

Just when he thought he couldn’t take anymore, Trevelyan let his fingers slip out of him and tugged at the laces of his breeches. They were both naked and panting by the time he positioned himself at his opening, the only thing separating them the air that seemed to ripple with electricity around them.

When Trevelyan finally - _finally_ \- pushed inside him, Dorian had to bite his lip down hard to stifle a cry. He thrust slowly at first, cautiously even, as if he were afraid he would break him. It was impatience more than anything, and that roaring fire coursing through his veins that made Dorian wrap his legs around his waist and pull him close against him, and Trevelyan gasped when he was sheathed to the hilt.

Dorian hummed with pleasure at the sudden fullness. He rolled his hips impatiently, urging him to go faster, but Trevelyan paused where he was, taking a deep, trembling breath.

Dorian eyed him curiously. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," Trevelyan said quickly, his voice strained. "I just- I need a moment."

A small laugh bubbled from Dorian's lips before he could stop it. "Really now?" 

Trevelyan rolled his eyes and let out a short huff. "It's been a while, you know."

"Oh," Dorian breathed. He stayed silent for a moment, worrying his lip, but it wasn't long before his curiosity got the best of him. "How long a while?"

Trevelyan chuckled breathily. Dorian felt the sound vibrating through him, and it brought a new wave of longing with it.

"Too long," he whispered, brushing the flat of his tongue over Dorian's lips, making him shiver as he picked up his pace.

Trevelyan kissed him hungrily, his tongue delving deep inside him just like his cock was. The burn of ecstasy bloomed in Dorian’s chest as their bodies found a languid rhythm, his pleasure building steadily with every thrust. He smoothed his palm over Trevelyan’s spine, where it arched and curved as he pushed into him. It was the most wonderful, agonizing torture that Dorian had ever felt. He had often fantasized about what it would feel like to have Trevelyan on him, around him, _inside_ him. Nothing had prepared him for how it would actually be. He felt his body opening up to him, surrendering to his soft touch. Surrendering, just as Dorian himself had surrendered, to his dark, reticent gaze, his reserved charm, his timid smiles and his warm glances, his fury and his sulkiness, too. If someone had told him all those months ago that the man with the seemingly constant sour expression on his face that he had met in that little chapel in Redcliffe Village, surrounded by demons, would make his heart quiver as if he were a lovestruck teenager, he would surely have laughed in their face.

Yet, he wasn't laughing now. He couldn’t quite remember how long it was since he had slept with someone -six months, a year, two years, an eternity?- yet the desire that warmed him to his very core went above and beyond sheer physical need for release. It was something deeper, primal and sublime at the same time. Like a fire that had left the earth to burn brightly through the heavens. For a moment, it seemed to Dorian that if he reached out, he could touch the fabric of the world itself.

It must have been the magic from the Anchor, he thought absently. Yes, that must have been it. There could be no other explanation for the fever that now took his body by storm.

Trevelyan pressed his forehead against Dorian’s, his ragged breath washing over him as he drove himself deeper.

“You’re beautiful,” Trevelyan whispered, his words more breath than sound as he brushed his lips over his ear. “You’re so beautiful, Dorian.”

Trevelyan’s voice was filled with so much tenderness that Dorian forgot to breathe for a long moment. His eyes burned with the intensity of the emotions that Trevelyan stirred within him. He threaded his fingers through Trevelyan’s hair and buried his face in the crook of his neck, and told him the only thing he could think of right then that wouldn’t make him burst into tears.

“Harder,” he urged, hoping his voice wasn’t trembling. “More… Please, I need more.”

The sounds of their coupling echoed in the silence as Trevelyan started slamming into him in earnest. When he hooked an arm under his leg and angled himself higher, burrowing more of his cock inside him and hitting that spot, Dorian thought he saw stars for a moment. He held on to him tightly, his hands running up his back, fingers digging into his shoulders as Trevelyan thrust deeper and deeper, drawing forth every bit of pleasure Dorian thought his body was capable of. He bit down on Trevelyan’s shoulder to muffle his own helpless moans, inhaling his warm scent, running his tongue over his skin, tasting the sweetness and saltiness of his sweat. It was utterly exquisite, and he couldn’t take any more, and-

From somewhere far away, he could almost hear his own muffled moans and garbled Tevene crashing against Trevelyan’s skin. He was so caught up in the whirlwind that he couldn’t even worry about being heard. He couldn’t, couldn’t think, and he couldn’t stop himself from trembling as Trevelyan reached down between them and curled his palm around his cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.

Dorian’s mind went blank as his body jerked with his orgasm. An explosion of white light right behind his eyelids, a warmth that spread over his entire body, like a brilliant sunrise after an eternity of night. Trevelyan wasn’t far behind, shuddering against him as he reached his own climax.

Trevelyan lay on top of him for a long while, their hearts thumping so hard against each other’s chest, that it felt like they were beating as one.

Languidly, Dorian caressed his back, running his fingers over the thin layer of sweat that had gathered in the dip between his shoulder blades. Trevelyan shivered under his touch, sighing softly as he pressed a feather light kiss to the side of his neck. He pushed himself up on unsteady arms and rolled to the side, his chest still heaving when he lay on his back.

Dorian turned his head to look at him, like a flower following the sun. He let his eyes glide over his breathing form, bathed in the soft glow from the oil lamp. The strands of messy, wavy hair that clung to his glistening brow, his warmed up cheeks, his rosy, passion swollen lips, the tiny freckles on his nose. His eyes were closed and he had the softest expression on his face, as if he was just about to go to sleep. A long moment passed that none of them spoke, until Dorian could hear Trevelyan's breaths deepening. It really did seem like he was going to sleep.

A hint of disappointment curdled the warm, fuzzy feeling that had taken over him. Perhaps that was it, then. They had just had a good time, and now they would both go to sleep, and they would wake up in the morning, pretending that nothing at all had happened. That was how things worked in Tevinter, anyway. Would it be too long a stretch to assume that this was how things worked in the South, too?

His heartbeat was slowly returning to normal, and he could now feel the night chill that made his exposed skin prickle. With a soft sigh, he pushed himself up, looking for his clothes in the half light.

Trevelyan’s palm that slid gently down his back stopped him.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought I would get dressed,” Dorian said, glancing at him over his shoulder. “It is getting quite chilly.”

“I know a quick fix for that,” Trevelyan whispered teasingly. Dorian’s heart fluttered like a bird in a cage as he let Trevelyan draw him back to the bed, pulling a blanket over them both.

Hope was a dangerous thing for someone like him to have. Good things lasted for a blink of an eye, if that long, and what was left after them was bitterness and hurt and loneliness, and a lifetime of putting on fake smiles and pretending that he didn’t care.

Dorian knew that. He knew it all too well. Yet, as he lay there in Trevelyan’s arms, enveloped in his soothing warmth, he couldn’t help but hope, with every ounce of his soul, that this, at least, would last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come yell at meeee :)


	19. Beloved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and smut, and just a little bit of plot. 
> 
> I listened to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QImH6snSN-g) on repeat while writing this chapter. I absolutely love it and I'm OBSESSED. 
> 
> NSFW. Lots of it. ;)

A memory of a dream, soft and indistinct, floated behind Dorian's eyelids as he gently shifted into wakefulness. Birds were chirping merrily outside, the fabric of the tent stirring in the early morning breeze. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Dorian shifted on his bedroll, only to realise that an arm slung possessively over him was keeping him firmly in place.

It took him a moment to realise that it was Trevelyan’s chest that was pressed against his back. The feel of his skin was warm and comforting, and his rhythmic breaths tickled the back of his neck. Dorian tilted his head to get a better look at the man next to him. Strands of wavy hair falling messily across his face. Lips slightly parted, moving soundlessly in his sleep, blond eyelashes fluttering softly. If there ever was a more beautiful sight to wake up to, Dorian didn’t know of it.

A swell of affection blossomed inside him. He turned around despite Trevelyan’s sleepy protests at his sudden movement and hugged him tightly, burying his face in his chest. His skin smelled sweet and musky with just a hint of herbal soap, mingled with the scent of recent sex, and it was utterly intoxicating. Dorian took a deep breath, letting it fill him to the brim.

Trevelyan grunted softly and tightened his hold around him, until Dorian’s chest was flush with his. “Good morning,” he mumbled sleepily, and Dorian felt the sound reverberating through him.

He smiled against Trevelyan’s skin. “Good morning to you, too.”

They stayed like this for a long while, until Dorian could feel himself drifting back to sleep. Wrapped in Trevelyan’s undulating warmth, and with the sweet pull of the Fade still at the edges of his consciousness, Dorian didn’t think he had ever felt anything as pleasant.

It was several minutes later that Trevelyan took a deep breath and gave Dorian a last squeeze before rolling on his back. He lifted his arms over his head and stretched languidly, his back arching like a cat's, the blanket slithering downwards with his movements, leaving his chest exposed. His eyes were still closed as he hummed groggily, then hurriedly pulled the covers back over him.

That Trevelyan was not a morning person was no secret to anyone. Cassandra would never stop complaining about his sleeping habits. He would stay up way too late, she always said, and they would end up starting their missions late. It didn’t bother Dorian very much -he was more of a night owl himself- but the Seeker never woke up too long after dawn, at most.

Which reminded Dorian; everyone was still asleep, making that the perfect opportunity to have Trevelyan all to himself, even for a little while. Before he had to assume the cursed role of Inquisitor once again, and everything that went with it.

He slithered closer to him, pressing against the side of his body. He told himself that it was because the morning air was still quite chilly, and Trevelyan’s chest was warm and soft -the perfect pillow, really. Much better than his hard and lumpy bedroll. Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus, did not _cuddle_. Never had, never would. Whoever said otherwise was plainly lying through their teeth.

Yet, when Trevelyan wrapped his arm around his shoulders again without even opening his eyes, as if by rote, Dorian felt his heart fluttering ever so slightly.

“Sleep well?” Dorian asked him, smoothing his palm over his stomach.

Trevelyan let out another humming sound, that sounded more like a purr, and buried his face in Dorian’s hair, inhaling deeply.

Dorian chuckled softly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Trevelyan cracked open one eyelid to look at him, his dark blue eyes almost violet in the faint light. His pupils were unusually large, and at that moment, he really looked like a large feline. A very big house cat, perhaps.

Dorian leaned in, pressing a feather kiss on his lips, but Trevelyan’s mouth parted eagerly under his, pulling him in. They kissed deeply, slowly, Trevelyan’s hand cradling the back of his neck and his thumb running over his cheek, setting his already heated blood on fire.

He reached down and ran his hand over the taut muscles of Trevelyan’s torso. They were both still naked under the covers, and Dorian held his breath as his exploratory fingers trailed lower, tangling in the soft hair of his navel before wrapping around his already hardened length.

Trevelyan groaned into Dorian’s mouth, his hips instinctively pushing forward to meet his hand. His palm slid down Dorian’s back, smoothing over the curve of his spine, sinking in the flesh of his buttocks, hard enough to bruise.

“Still want more after last night?” Dorian asked teasingly, although he already knew the answer. He himself would need a thousand nights like the one they had just had, and it still wouldn’t be enough to quench the roaring fire inside him.

Trevelyan rolled his hips again with a throaty grunt, pumping into his fist. He pushed Dorian onto his back and climbed on top of him, and Dorian felt a rush of excitement coursing through his veins at the sight of him, hovering over him.

“I’ll always want more,” he whispered, before claiming Dorian’s mouth in a kiss that left him panting with need.

Trevelyan’s palm wrapped around Dorian’s cock, stroking him gently and firmly while he trailed wet kisses down the length of his neck. An exquisite warmth spread all over his body, and he soon found himself pleading for more.

His pulse was pumping wildly in his throat when Trevelyan pulled slightly back, a self-satisfied half smile painted on his lips with the breathiness in Dorian’s voice. He brought his hand up to lick his fingers, then reached down to circle his opening, teasing him until Dorian thought he would cry out in frustration.

Two fingers were pushed inside him easily, his body offering up no resistance. He moaned against Trevelyan’s mouth, instinctively rolling his hips in time with his thrusts.

“Tell me what you want,” Trevelyan rasped, the lust in his voice making the pleasure that was already building inside him so sharp and dizzying that he almost choked.

Dorian gasped when he brushed against that spot, and bit Trevelyan’s bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark, making him groan. “I want you,” he moaned. “Now, just take me now.”

And take him he did. Soon Dorian’s hips were rising up to meet Trevelyan’s thrusts, his gasps running over his skin as he pounded into him mercilessly, until they both shuddered, their panting breaths the only sound disrupting the quiet.

Of all the mornings he had had ever since coming to the South, Dorian counted that amongst the very best.

Dorian didn't think he would ever consider bathing in a stream, but when Trevelyan took him by the hand after their… morning activities and led him to a hidden waterfall he had found, he couldn’t well refuse. They followed the narrow stream that slithered along the grassy banks, glittering silver and gold in the bright sunlight, until they reached a small mountain of smooth river rocks.

Fairly unimpressive, as far as Dorian was concerned. He was feeling quite relieved, thinking that Trevelyan would abandon the notion, but instead simply gaped in suprise when Trevelyan proceeded to climb the rocks. He had already reached the middle when he called out to him. “These rocks won’t climb themselves, you know.”

Dorian huffed in mock exasperation. “There are many things I enjoy climbing. Rocks are not amongst them.”

Trevelyan laughed as he reached the top. He hauled himself up, then looked down at Dorian, placing his fists on his hips. “Care to tell me what those things are?”

Dorian arched an eyebrow at him, and Trevelyan’s smile widened into a grin. “Come,” he said. “The waterfall isn’t very far.”

Biting back a sigh, Dorian lumbered up towards the top of the tiny hill, where Trevelyan was standing, watching him. The surface of the rocks was sleek and slippery, and Dorian thought he would roll back down like a sack of apples on more than one occasion, but he eventually made it to the top, panting and sweating somewhat ungracefully. 

“It looked much easier when you did it,” Dorian grumbled, dusting his shirt.

Trevelyan smiled at him before he turned around and walked ahead. “How do you think I spent most of my spare time when I was a child?” he asked him. “When I wasn’t horse riding, I would sneak out of the house and run to the nearest beach. I loved to climb the rocks, or search for sea shells or crabs where the waves broke. I could spend hours there, until my mother would send Nelly, our housekeeper, to fetch me back. Tilly often came with me.”

The mention of his sister’s name drove a sharp pang of sadness through Dorian. He walked closer to him, his steps falling alongside his. “Did she like collecting sea shells, too?”

Trevelyan nodded. “She loved it. She really liked those that are rough like stones on top, then when you turn them over, they shimmer like pearls in the light. I once collected enough for her to make a necklace. She wore it for an entire day, until her skin broke out in a rash.” His lips curled into a soft, reminiscent smile. “She cried because she couldn’t wear it anymore, but I remember finding it incredibly funny. I teased her so much about it that she threw the necklace at me, and one of the shells cut me on the forehead. Then I broke out in a rash, too.”

“I believe it served you right.”

Trevelyan’s shoulders trembled with his laughter, and Dorian found himself laughing with him, too. Without really thinking, he reached out and threaded his hand through his. Trevelyan turned to look at him, and the tenderness in his features stole Dorian’s breath away.

“She would have liked you,” he said softly. “I know she would.”

Dorian’s mouth felt dry when he returned his smile with a tremulous one of his own. Trevelyan's hand in his felt warm and reassuring, and he gave it a tiny, barely perceptible squeeze, as if by instinct.

The small waterfall soon came into view, its waters falling swiftly into the stream below. Although it was still quite early, the day had grown hot and humid, and the cool spray of the water was more than welcome against Dorian’s skin, warmed up from their trek. Still, he glanced apprehensively at it, reluctant to get too close. The idea of getting in the icy cold water, even on a warm day like that, filled him with vague dread.

Trevelyan didn’t seem to share his inhibitions. For someone who disliked everything that had to do with being in nature, he definitely seemed more than eager to jump in. Dorian watched him take his clothes off slowly, that arrogant little smirk curling his lips, then strolling casually to him and pulling the hem of Dorian’s shirt over his head.

“I am still not getting in, you know,” Dorian told him, though he did nothing to stop him when he tugged at the laces of his breeches.

“Well,” he said, giving him a wide smile. “I might have to do something to change that.”

Dorian sheepishly let him take his hand and guide him towards the stream, but a dip of his toes in the water made him freeze where he was. All the hairs on his body stood on end, and he stayed by the river’s edge for a long moment, the water barely up to his ankles while he watched Trevelyan plod forward and get under the rushing waters of the waterfall. It ran smoothly over his pale skin like a river made of silver, making the muscles in his body glimmer like polished marble.

His arse looked positively splendid in the daylight, too. Dorian was never one to ignore the finer things in life.

Trevelyan turned around to look at him, brushing the water away from his eyes. He took a step away from the waterfall and shook his head like a mabari, sending water flying everywhere. Some of the droplets fell on Dorian’s arm, and he had to bite back a squeal as it chilled him to the bone.

Trevelyan was watching him, his grin making that dimple by the side of his mouth deeper than Dorian had seen it in days, perhaps weeks.

“Are you coming or are you just going to stand there, staring at me?” he said, unabashedly placing his hands on his hips.

Dorian swallowed hard. Keeping his eyes fixed on Trevelyan’s face was harder than he thought, but he still managed to return his teasing smile. “The view is fine from where I am, thank you very much. I think I’m going to admire it just a little bit longer.”

Trevelyan scoffed as he approached him, treading slowly through the shallow waters. When he finally reached him, he wrapped his arms around him in a wet and chilly embrace, that made a sharp hiss escape Dorian’s lips.

The water on his skin was crisp and cold, and it sent a shiver right through Dorian. Still, instead of pulling away, he found himself relaxing into his arms, and when Trevelyan brought his lips down on his, he couldn’t well resist that.

He didn’t know what it was exactly – he had kissed Trevelyan so many times, and over the past few hours they had practically not taken a single breath away from each other. Even so, Dorian felt helplessly drawn to him, like a moth was drawn to light. His lips were the sweetest thing he had ever tasted, and the warmth of his body was soothing him to the depths of his soul, and if Dorian could have it his way, they would never spend a moment apart.

True to his word, when Trevelyan gently pulled him towards the water, until they were both standing underneath the cool waters of the waterfall, he didn’t bring up a hint of resistance. He didn’t even pay much mind to the goosebumps raised all over his skin, not with Trevelyan’s so close to him, his hands running over his body, his tongue lapping the water from the dip in his collarbone.

He threaded his fingers through his soaking wet hair, kissing him deeply. Trevelyan’s lips parted, his tongue brushing over his, and the warmth of it over the icy freshness of the water kindled a new fire through Dorian.

Trevelyan only huffed a laugh at his impatience when Dorian pushed him away from the rushing waters, towards a large, smooth stone at the edge of the stream. He made him sit on it and Trevelyan obeyed with a smile, letting his legs fall open to allow Dorian to kneel between them. His cock was hard and resting atop his navel by the time Dorian settled on his knees down on the smooth riverbed.

A sharp hiss left Trevelyan’s lips when Dorian’s fingers curled around his length. He ran his fist over it slowly, relishing Trevelyan’s panting breaths and the obvious lust in his features.

“You’re awfully quiet, oh Lord Inquisitor,” Dorian said teasingly, sliding his palm down his shaft, eliciting a choked groan from him.

Trevelyan gave him a half smile. “What do you want me to say?”

Dorian lowered himself only a little, until his breath brushed over his pink and swollen tip. Trevelyan watched him, a flush creeping up his cheeks, his lips slightly parted, the pupils in his eyes widening as they followed his movements. He watched him carefully, like a hunter stalking his prey.

“I believe it’s your turn now to tell me what you want,” Dorian whispered.

Trevelyan huffed a laugh, but he couldn’t help the slight trembling in his breath. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said, glancing at his cock and then at him.

Dorian arched an eyebrow, his hand pausing. “I want to hear you say it.”

The smile faded from Trevelyan’s lips, and he looked at him steadily, his hunter’s gaze on him so intently that it made Dorian shiver. “I want your mouth on me.”

With a satisfied smile, Dorian lowered his mouth over him, taking him in as far as he could go.

The sound of the moan he got sent a ripple of pleasure down his own spine. When Trevelyan’s hand slithered into his hair, pulling it ever so slightly, he felt his own cock twitching with anticipation.

Dorian slid his lips over his entire length until he released him with a pop, then dove back again. The feel of the firm smoothness of his cock pressing against his tongue, the taste of fresh water mingled with the sharp and salty taste of him, they were enough to make his head swim. He took him in deeper and deeper, until his nose was buried in the thatch of soft blond curls at his navel, and Trevelyan groaned throatily, fingers twisting in Dorian's hair. Dorian looked up at him and knew how he must have looked to him then; mushed up hair and passion swollen lips wrapped around his shaft. He could see him coming closer to the edge with every swipe of his tongue, his breaths getting a little more erratic every time their eyes met.

Trevelyan himself looked… _fasta vass_ , just the sight of him was enough to kindle a fever in Dorian's chest, so hot it was almost unbearable. His flushed cheeks, his lids heavy with lust, the drops of water on his skin glimmering in the sun like a million stars. He brought his hand down to cup Dorian’s cheek, running his thumb over his skin, never taking his eyes off him. It wasn’t long before Dorian felt him stiffen against his lips and his hold on Dorian’s hair tightening as he shuddered, the moan that left his lips the deepest and most guttural Dorian had heard coming from him, as he swallowed down every drop he was given.

Before Dorian could rise up, Trevelyan pulled him up on his lap for a sloppy, passionate kiss. Dorian returned it eagerly, gasping in his mouth when Trevelyan wrapped his long, lithe fingers around his shaft.

“Now it’s my turn to return the favour,” he whispered with a smile.

After that they lay on the soft grass near the waterfall. The sun felt warm and soothing on Dorian’s skin, the breeze caressing his body as he lay next to Trevelyan, arms and legs entwined. He closed his eyes, letting the stillness of the moment sink in. It had been so long since he could just lie down and enjoy the silence, and he felt all of the tension of the previous days leaving him with every moment that passed. The leaves on the century old trees stirred with the wind, the birds chirping and Trevelyan’s breathing the only other sounds as they both basked in the brilliant sunlight.

Trevelyan’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was so soft and relaxed that Dorian thought he might have gone back to sleep. It wouldn’t be a surprise. He had looked so tired and strung out those past few days, that he wouldn’t be surprised even if he decided to sleep for an entire week.

A tiny smile was on his lips, his features as soft as Dorian had ever seen them. He looked so much younger than he had the previous day. Sometimes Dorian forgot that Trevelyan was a few years younger than himself, with the weariness and stress of the Inquisition making him look old beyond his years. Yet now, as they lay there together, he looked content, relaxed, happy, even.

Perhaps what he had really needed all along was a proper fuck, Dorian thought to himself with some amusement.

A mountain goat passed them by, eyeing them curiously as it made its way towards the stream, then promptly ran off when Trevelyan playfully flicked a pebble at it.

“My, my, the mighty Herald of Andraste, terrorizing the goats of the Emerald Graves. Whatever would people say?”

Trevelyan sneered. “I think they would have more to say about me lying naked on the grass with my bits in plain view than about my terrorizing goats.”

“Ah, yes,” Dorian agreed, feigning disinterest. “I had quite forgotten about that part.”

“Had you now?” Trevelyan said, eyeing him teasingly. “I don’t believe you.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “What can I say? You’ve caught me out once more. Clearly you “bits” are the only thing I can think about these days.”

“I knew it.” Trevelyan tucked his arm under his head and closed his eyes, a self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. “Such a wicked man, you are. Is your mind always in the gutter?” A jab at his sides made him cry out in pain.

“There’s more where that came from,” Dorian warned him sternly, but couldn’t help his smile that widened when Trevelyan leaned in and gave him a loud, smacking kiss on the lips.

“I hope there is,” he said, pulling him close.

His pale skin was starting to get flushed from the sun, his shoulders and the tip of his nose turning the most alluring shade of pink. Now that they were out in the sunlight, Dorian had all the time to notice all those little details that he had never seen before. Those small, barely noticeable freckles on his nose, scattered on his skin like stars in a night sky. The tiny mole under his collarbone, the other one near his navel. The multitude of scars on his skin, their edges glittering in the sun. The one on his neck, where the Venatori blade had cut him all those months ago. The one on his right arm, from that fight in the Exalted Plains, that Dorian had helped stitch.

Dorian ran his fingers gently over them, smiling with Trevelyan’s soft humming as he did so. A slightly larger one was on his right side, underneath his ribs, its edges ragged and more pronounced. Dorian reached down to touch it, letting his fingers trace its bumpy surface.

“How did you get this?” Dorian asked curiously.

Trevelyan let out a soft sigh, not opening his eyes. “I got it a long time ago. It was actually one of the first scars I ever got.”

Dorian lifted his gaze to his face. There was a slight frown creasing his eyebrows now, but he still seemed unpertrubed by Dorian’s question. He took a deep breath, his chest puffing, as he prepared to speak.

“It was after I had left home. After… after Tilly died.” He stopped for a moment, his lips twisting ever so slightly before he continued. “My mother sent her retainers after me to drag me back. I evaded them easily enough. Most of them were just servants or guards in our house, with no real tracking skills. When they failed to find me, she hired professional bounty hunters. Bloodhounds.”

Dorian blinked uneasily, tilting his head slightly back on Trevelyan’s shoulder to get a good look at him.

“Those men were… ruthless. They hunted me down mercilessly for months. I even had to change towns a few times to make sure they would lose my tracks. Still, they persisted. I suspect my mother had promised them a handsome sum if they managed to bring me back to Ostwick alive. One of them managed to get close enough. He found me outside an inn near Markham. Tried to hit me on the head with the butt of his dagger and knock me out cold, but I was quick enough to evade it. We fought, and I got this scar as a souvenir.”

Dorian froze, his breath catching in his throat. “He attacked you, just like that? In cold blood?”

“To be fair, I pulled a dagger on him first. I believe he did it in self defense, but you can never be sure with those types. They’re a bloodthirsty lot.” His fingers traced a small, circular pattern on Dorian’s arm. It was soothing, just as his words unsettled him to his core. “I had to stitch the wound myself. I guess that’s why it looks so ragged. I’ve never been any good at it.”

Dorian shook his head, pressing himself closer against him. “I can’t believe your mother would send people like that to bring you back,” he murmured, feeling the anger swelling in his chest. “That man could have killed you.”

A small, sad smile crossed Trevelyan’s lips. “I told you my mother would make your father look like a lamb,” he said teasingly. His breath was warm when it washed over Dorian. “I don’t know if I can blame her for that. I am the last Trevelyan heir, after all. Of course she would want me back. I bet she still has plans for me, Inquisition or no.”

He opened his eyes and gazed at the sky overhead. He stayed silent for a long moment before he spoke. “My relationship with my mother wasn’t always this terrible,” he whispered. “There was a time when we almost tolerated each other. Yet, as I grew older..” He let out a heavy sigh. “I just don’t know if I will ever understand her. Or she me. Tilly was always the mediator. She would try to keep things civil between us. When she was taken away, everything just… fell apart. And I think they’re far too broken now to ever mend.”

Dorian’s heart squeezed into something small and tight with the bleakness and resignation in his voice. He smoothed his palm over his chest, caressing him softly as he pressed his body just that bit closer to his. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Trevelyan tightened his hold around him. “Don’t be."

He tilted Dorian’s chin up with his fingertips and pressed a kiss to his forehead, before capturing his mouth in a kiss that was so tender and gentle that Dorian thought he would melt.

"I don't care about any of that when I have you."

Dorian couldn't say exactly what it was that he felt at that moment. His heart felt full with something that he couldn't put to words, something that drew him helplessly towards him, that made his stomach twist in knots so tight he could barely breathe. He returned Trevelyan's light and chaste kiss with a passionate one of his own, catching his bottom lip between his teeth, brushing his tongue over the bitemarks. Trevelyan moaned softly into his mouth, and Dorian felt the familiar fever blooming in his chest with the sound.

With his lips still locked with Trevelyan's, he brought himself up on his knees and straddled him, sliding his mouth down to his neck.

Trevelyan closed his eyes and let out a soft groan, his palms sliding over Dorian’s thighs. "You've wrung me out, man. I need food. Drink. Rest. I have to replenish my strength."

Dorian smiled wickedly as he rolled his hips over Trevelyan's already hardening length. "Oh, I think you have one more in you."

A few moments later, Dorian was arching his back into Trevelyan's deep and steady thrusts, drinking every gasp and moan that rushed forth from his lips. Pleasure and warmth, such that he had never known, surged through his entire body, making him dizzy. Trevelyan’s hands where they touched him sent ripples of electricity through him, and he could do nothing but give himself wholly to them, unable to hold back.

It felt odd to make love like this, in broad daylight, with nothing concealing them from wandering eyes. Not that there were any, but even so, Dorian couldn’t help the rush of exhilaration that coursed through him at the thought. If he were back in Tevinter he would be in deep trouble, were anyone to stumble upon them like this. Yet, it wasn’t the possible danger of being caught or seen that was now making his heart thump in his throat.

It was Trevelyan, his touch so unabashedly gentle that it left him breathless. The way their bodies fit and locked together like two pieces of a whole, their breaths mingling until he couldn’t tell them apart. The way Trevelyan gazed at him, with so much love and tenderness, like he was wonderful and good and worthy, someone that deserved to be adored.

The warmth in his chest blossomed into something hot and ravenous, something that could barely be contained within his own body.

Trevelyan reached up to cradle Dorian’s neck, his tongue twining with his as he pushed inside him, leading him closer and closer to the edge. Dorian leaned into his touch and gasped against his lips when he hit that spot.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” he whimpered. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop...”

Trevelyan thrusts became harder and faster, his eyes on Dorian’s face, watching his every expression as they both came undone. Dorian collapsed breathlessly on top of him, feeling Trevelyan’s heart beating against his own.

Long fingers traced a line along his spine, and Trevelyan hummed softly, the sound vibrating through Dorian. “It seems you were right,” he said breathlessly. “I did have one more in me.”

Dorian chuckled as he pushed himself up on his elbows to gaze at him. There were drops of sweat glittering on his brow, his lips pink and flushed and glistening. “You’ll soon find out that I’m _always_ right.”

They stayed like that for a long while, passion swollen lips gliding into soft, lazy kisses as the breeze cooled their joined bodies. It was the perfect day, and breathing underneath him was his perfect, perfect, perfect man.

When they finally returned to the camp, Cassandra was pacing impatiently up and down before the fire, while Varric was sitting comfortably with his back against their water barrel, scribbling on a piece of parchment. The Seeker stopped her incessant pacing when she saw them approaching. Her eyes glided from Dorian to Trevelyan, taking in his hair, still wet and dishevelled, before stopping at his neck and an easily distinguishable red mark on his, that Dorian suspected he was responsible for. A slight flush crept up her features, and she looked away.

Varric’s glasses glinted in the sun when he lifted his face to gaze at them, the glare obscuring his eyes.

“Well, well! There you are,” he said affably, his pen never ceasing. “The Seeker was about to form a search party to bring you back. I only barely managed to convince her not to.”

Cassandra glowered at him and straightened up, folding her arms before her chest. “I most certainly was not,” she retorted. “The Inquisitor was gone for too long, and I was just concerned. For our mission!” she added hastily, her blush deepening. She gave Trevelyan a chiding look. “Next time you plan to disappear like that, you should let us know beforehand.”

Dorian felt Trevelyan tensing next to him, his back straightening. He braced himself for a sharp retort, which never came.

“You’re right, Cassandra,” Trevelyan said simply, if through slightly tight lips. “You have a right to know where I go when we’re on missions together. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time.”

If a silver feathered griffon had pranced about their camp at that very moment, it would have caused less of a surprise. Cassandra blinked at him, her eyes going wide as saucers and her mouth falling open in a silent gasp. Varric’s pen froze, the ink from its tip sinking into the parchment in a wide, dark splotch and marring the elegant handwriting.

Trevelyan appeared oblivious to their bewilderment as he casually strode towards the campfire. A pot was still over the logs that had now been reduced to glowing embers, and he lifted its lid to sniff its contents.

“Did you make this?” he asked Varric, who was still too astonished to talk. “It smells delicious.” Without waiting for a reply, he scooped a spoonful onto a bowl, extending it towards Dorian. “Come,” he said, “let’s eat before it gets cold. I’m starving.”

Varric pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted slightly at Trevelyan, as if checking for any head injuries, before shooting a questioning glance at Dorian.

Dorian simply shrugged and shook his head, biting back a smile. No, he hadn’t the faintest idea what had happened to the man.

After their breakfast, they all set out for the refugee camp. They walked at a brisk pace, but for once, Dorian didn’t feel like he was melting with the heat underneath his armour. There was a soft breeze blowing amidst the trees, cooling him down.

Even if it was boiling hot, or freezing cold, Dorian wasn’t sure if he would have cared very much. Trevelyan was walking just ahead of him, talking animatedly with Varric as they strode on. They were having one of their usual arguments about which of their home cities was best, and the sound of his bubbling laughter was enough to make him lightheaded.

“The pubs in Ostwick serve better drinks,” he said, his smile still lingering on his lips. “Everyone knows that.”

“Better drinks? You’re shitting me, Blondie,” Varric retorted. “If I wanted to pay a sovereign for a mug of ale, I would go to Val Royeaux. At least the minstrels there are half decent.”

Trevelyan sneered. “The ale is pricey, that is true, but only because it’s good. None of that stale piss they serve in Kirkwall. I only made the mistake of trying it once, and it was a wonder that I managed to keep it down.”

“Which pub did you go to, exactly?” Varric asked, eyeing him curiously. “Perhaps you managed to find yourself in the elven alienage. It wouldn’t surprise me if they did in fact serve you horse piss in a bucket if you went in one of their pubs.”

Trevelyan shrugged, his outstretched palm brushing over the tips of the tall grass as he walked. “Does it even matter? All pubs there seemed the same to me. It was by the docks, anyway.”

“Well,” Varric said with a grin, “that could explain it. The only people going there are dock workers and cut throats. A pretty, well-bred lad like you, amongst Kirkwall’s finest? I’m amazed you made it out alive.”

Trevelyan straightened up, puffing his chest as he gave Varric an affronted look. “What, those toothless, shrivelled old men? I could beat them with my eyes closed.”

Varric tossed his head back and let out a loud guffaw. “Now, that’s a fight I would have given good money to watch. The Herald of Andraste, getting his ass handed to him by a bunch of toughened up thugs? Can’t beat that.”

Trevelyan prepared to give him a sharp retort, his brows furrowing, when Dorian walked up to them, squeezing himself between them. “Now, now, gentlemen, play nice. I'm sure both your cities, or what passes for a city in the South, anyway, are positively adorable. Yet, none of them can compare to Minrathous. I believe that settles your argument."

Trevelyan gave him a wide grin, just as Varric shook his head, chuckling under his breath. Cassandra only shot them an exasperated frown, walking well ahead of them. "Get on with it, all of you," she called over her shoulder. "We don't have all day." 

They arrived at the refugee camp just as the sun was reaching the middle of the sky. There was a lot of activity, as there always was, but there was also an unusual buzz about the place, a strange sort of stir that they had not seen last time they were there. There were more guards stationed at the camp’s entrance, who looked at them warily as they approached, straightening up. The young man -or rather, the boy- they had seen the first time they had visited the camp gave them a considering look.

“You’re here for Fairbanks?” he asked them when they came close enough to hear him.

“We are,” Trevelyan said simply, seemingly unaware of the lad’s clipped tone. He glanced towards the hustle and bustle at the inside of the camp. There were people going about their usual business of cooking, washing and mending clothes or cleaning pots and pans, but a lot more were whetting blades, dressing axe handles with new strips of leather, polishing shields and whatever scraps of old armour they had managed to find. A few looked up at them, brows furrowed and guarded expressions on their faces, before focusing back on their work.

“What happened here?” Trevelyan asked the guard.

The boy shifted uncomfortably on his feet and chewed on his lip. “You’d… better wait for Fairbanks, my lord. He will tell you.”

“I see,” Trevelyan said, letting out a somewhat bored and disinterested sigh as he folded his arms before his chest and leaned against the cave wall. “Go on, then. Fetch him.”

The guard gaped only momentarily at his relaxed stance before turning on his heel. He returned with Fairbanks soon after, who gave them all considering looks in turn, as he always did. His hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck, but there were several strands poking out of the tail, and his forehead gleamed with sweat. His hands were covered in soot, Dorian noticed, and the man himself smelt of iron grind. He had probably been helping the blacksmiths, or tending to the fires. The fact that they had blacksmiths at all in that camp was a marvel in and of itself.

“What’s going on, Fairbanks?”

The man returned Trevelyan's look with a serious expression, then motioned for them to come in, past the barricades. They followed him inside the camp, to a desk that lay behind a threadbare partition at the far end of the cave, and which evidently served as his office.

“We did as you said,” Fairbanks told Trevelyan as soon as they were all gathered around the desk. “I sent my men to retrieve the remains of the people you burnt. We couldn’t know if they were ours,” he said, somewhat tartly,” but we buried them anyhow.”

Trevelyan’s brows were furrowed now, his uninterested expression fading away. “Did you see any Red Templars? Or Venatori?”

“No,” Fairbanks said, shaking his head, his unease carving lines in his forehead. “There was no evidence of them anywhere. It’s as if they’ve disappeared.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

“That _is_ the problem,” Fairbanks said poignantly. “We used to see them everywhere, yet now they’ve simply vanished. A force like that can’t just disappear overnight. And you haven’t even killed that many of them. Going by my scout’s calculations, their forces must have been in the dozens, if not hundreds. Where could they all have gone?”

Trevelyan twisted his ring as he listened to Fairbanks’ words, a pensive frown clouding his features. “What about the red lyrium?”

“Where they left it,” Fairbanks said with a weary sigh, folding his arms before his chest. “That’s why I’m telling you this doesn’t seem right. They went to all this trouble to harvest the stuff, and now they’re leaving it, just like that?” He shook his head. “There’s something else at play here.”

“Maybe the presence of the Inquisition intimidated them enough to leave,” Cassandra interjected. “Perhaps they decided a few crates of lyrium and some ragtag Freemen bands were not worth the trouble.”

Fairbanks titled his head slowly, considering. “Maybe you’re right,” he said after a moment. “Maybe you did scare them enough to leave. But if you didn’t, and I’m right, I want to be prepared. That’s why you see all my people preparing for battle.”

Dorian glanced over his shoulder at the people milling about the camp. Most of them where still dressed in rags, and the men wearing ill-fitting armour, and old or broken swords that seemed to be made of rust rather than steel. He tried not to sniff his disapproval too loudly as he turned back to Fairbanks, giving him a careful look-over. If he thought he could hold back enemy forces like that, he was desperate at best, insane at worst.

“Have your scouts spotted any of the Freemen?” Trevelyan asked.

“Some of them have dispersed,” Fairbanks said, drawing out his words uncertainly. “Gone back to the Exalted Plains most likely, where the pickings are still riper. Without the Red Templars’ resources, there would be little hope of them sustaining any sort of decent force in the forest. Maker knows how _we_ manage,” he added sourly. “But there are some who refuse to leave. They have gathered at Argon’s Lodge, a fort near the northeast edge of the forest. They’re not many, but they’re desperate. I suspect they will put up a fierce fight, should they be provoked, but it shouldn’t be impossible to drive them out.”

Trevelyan’s gaze, that had drifted to the faded tapestries and an old map hanging on the cave wall behind Fairbanks, snapped back to the man’s face. “ _Provoked?_ ” he asked him. His voice was calm and level, but there was a sharp edge to it that made Fairbanks blink. “Now, why would someone do that?”

“I didn’t say they would,” Fairbanks replied, just as levelly. “I’m just saying…”

He let his words trail off as a mirthful smile widened Trevelyan’s lips. Trevelyan crossed his arms in front of his chest, mirroring Fairbanks. “You want us to clear Argon’s Lodge for you.”

Fairbanks blinked at him. He at least had the decency to look offended. “I’m not going to lie by saying that it wouldn’t benefit me if you did,” he said curtly, and with visible effort. “However, you have already more than fulfilled your part of our deal. And this time, I have nothing to trade for your support. As you can see, we are barely making due as it is, and I don’t have any more information that could be of help to you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Trevelyan said dryly, letting his arms fall. Hope flickered in Fairbanks’s eyes, but it was promptly snuffed out when Trevelyan spoke again. “Where is the girl?” he asked. “I wish to speak with her.”

With a curt nod, Fairbanks signalled to one of his men to lead them to where the girl was. “No one has spoken with her, just as you asked. She is still quite shaken, but she might have something of use to tell you.”

They were all led to a corner of the cave, behind another set of decrepit partitions, where the girl was kept. As Fairbanks had said, she looked terrified and worse for wear. Her large, brown eyes were wide when she saw them entering. There was an expression of absolute horror when her gaze fell on Dorian and his staff.

She whimpered as she scrambled to press herself against the cave wall, as far away from them as possible. The man that Fairbanks had sent to lead them to her crouched low and moved towards her, speaking to her soothingly in Orlesian. He extended his hand out to her, slowly and carefully, as if she were a wounded animal. She blinked at him, then at them, before letting him pull her up on her feet.

The dress she was wearing hung loosely about her skinny shoulders, and her cheeks were gaunt and sunken, but she looked healthy enough. The young man stood protectively next to her, still holding her hand. "Her name is Elodie," he told them. "I'll stay here while you speak with her."

Trevelyan only glanced at him for a moment, then nodded towards the door. “No. My companions and I will speak to her alone.” The man started to speak, but Trevelyan cut him short. “I’m sure Fairbanks has other business for you to attend to. You’d better get to it.”

The man’s lips were pinched bloodless as he gave the girl a last glance and stomped out of the little makeshift room. Her face was ashen when she turned to Trevelyan, who took a small step forward.

Dorian’s Orlesian was less that average, that much was true. They couldn’t even compare with Trevelyan’s, who seemed fluent in it. Still, he managed to catch a few words and piece together what they were saying.

The Red Templars had caught her when she had gone to collect edible plants and fruit from the forest. She and another from the camp, a young boy named Jean, had stumbled upon an upturned merchant’s wagon, filled with sacks of flour and dried fruits. They had stopped to take some when the Templars found them and caught them. They stuffed them both in sacks so that they couldn’t see where they were taking them. When they were taken out of the sacks, they were in a cave. After that, she remembered little, drifting in and out of consciousness as she was from the drugs they kept feeding them.

“Did they make you mine red lyrium? A bright red sort of crystal,” Trevelyan explained when the girl looked at him quizzically.

She shook her head. “No, _messer_. They wouldn’t let us near it. Said it would make us mad.”

That gave Trevelyan pause. His brows were furrowed in thought as he twisted the ring on his finger.

“What about the Venatori- the mages? Did you see them, speak to them?”

The girl’s eyes darted to Dorian, and she swallowed thickly. A ball of apprehension settled in his stomach with the fear in her gaze. “I saw them, but never spoke to them. They would just come in and take a few of us every day. They took Jean.” Her voice broke. “He never came back. I don’t know what they did to him.”

Trevelyan looked at her for a long moment, sympathy softening his features, before hardening again into a determined frown. “Did you learn else anything about them?”

Elodie blinked through her tears at him. She looked around her, as if trying to gather her thoughts. “They… they seemed anxious. They kept saying that they couldn’t stay there for long. One of them…” She stopped, shivering. “One of them said that they should kill us all, and the Red Templars that captured us. That the gold they have given them wouldn’t buy their silence. That if they spoke, the wrath of the… the Elder One would fall upon them.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up in his surprise. He glanced at Varric, who returned his astonished look with one of his own.

Trevelyan’s voice was also thick with surprise when he spoke. “The wrath of the Elder One? So he wasn’t the one to send them here?”

Elodie shook her head. “I don’t know, _messer_.”

“Did they say anything else? About what it is they were doing there?”

“No, _messer_. But whatever they were doing,” she said hesitantly, “they wanted to do it quickly. They had a leader. A woman. She kept yelling at the mages under her, saying that they had to be first. First to what, I cannot know.”

Trevelyan kept twisting his ring, his frown deepening. “What about their names? Did you catch any names?”

The girl shook her head again, and Trevelyan ran a hand through his hair and let out a short huff. Elodie’s eyes widened and she took a step back, obviously terrified of being the one that caused his displeasure. Dorian felt sorry for the poor girl. He supposed that to someone who didn’t know him, Trevelyan would seem like a very sour and grim man, indeed.

After that, Trevelyan asked her more about the Red Templars, how many she had seen, how much red lyrium she had seen being carted in and out of the cave, if there were any more stashes she knew of. She shook her head to his questions, or gave him vague and uncertain answers. At length, Trevelyan let her go and walked out, his usual pensive frown firmly on his face.

Fairbanks was waiting for them at the cave exit, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He didn’t look quite as certain as other times when meeting Trevelyan’s stony gaze.

“Inquisitor,” he said as soon as he saw them.

“We’re off, Fairbanks,” Trevelyan said. He looked at the throng of men, women and children gathered at the cave entrance, then over his shoulder at them, and at that moment Dorian knew what he was about to say. Cassandra gave him a nod, and he turned back to Fairbanks, straightening up. “We’re on our way to Argon’s Lodge.”

Fairbank’s eyes flashed with excitement, then he nodded to a few men that were gathered by the side of the entrance. “I took the liberty of outfitting some of my men. They can assist you in storming the Freemen’s lair.”

Half of them were boys, barely old enough to shave, and the rest were old men, their hair and beards peppered with grey. Their threadbare armours were made of odd pieces that were mixed and matched together, either too big or too small on them. Their weapons, at least, were in somewhat better condition, the blades freshly whetted. They were watching them with wide eyes, some of them eager, some frightened.

Trevelyan glanced at them all in turn. His expression soured as his gaze hopped from one man to the next, before settling on Fairbanks. “These are your only men capable of fighting?”

Fairbanks returned his scornful look with a frown. “Yes.”

“They are much more likely to be a hindrance than a help,” Trevelyan said dryly. “We’ll be going alone.”

The relief was evident in Fairbanks’s features, but he tried to rein it in with a sharp nod. “As you wish, Inquisitor.”

They started towards Argon Lodge, the warm sunlight flickering through the thick leaves. The day had grown quite hot and stifling, and not even the breeze that blew through the trees was enough to keep them dry and cool as they traipsed through the uneven terrain of the forest.

Trevelyan was walking beside him, his boots falling softly on the earth, in sync with his breaths. He had gathered his hair back in a tail with a leather cord that Varric had given him after he had grumbled about the heat. A few pale blond strands clung to the nape of his neck, while some others had escaped from the cord to fall softly around his face. There was a frown furrowing his brow, and he seemed absorbed in tearing a stalk of wild wheat to pieces as he walked.

Varric was talking with Cassandra a little way ahead, or rather, Varric was talking _to_ Cassandra while she rolled her eyes and tried not to laugh at his jokes. Dorian moved closer to Trevelyan, so close that their shoulders were almost touching. He reached out to him, his fingers gently tracing the inside of his arm. Trevelyan looked up, his frown easing away slighlty when he caught Dorian’s eye.

“Everything alright?” Dorian asked softly.

Trevelyan gave him the smallest of nods, then looked away. “Yes. I was just thinking about what that girl said.”

Dorian waited for a moment, then when Trevelyan didn’t speak, he gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “…And?”

Trevelyan worried his lip for a few seconds before letting out a small sigh. “None of it makes sense. It sounds to me like the Venatori wanted to hide what they were doing. Not just from the rest of the world, but from their own allies as well. Perhaps from Corypheus, even. Why would they do that?”

Dorian looked ahead of him, his gaze drifting towards the tops of the tall trees in the distance. “The Venatori are nothing if not overly ambitious schemers. There’s a million reasons why they would want to hide what they were doing. Perhaps there is discord amidst Corypheus’ ranks. Maybe they’re planning to unseat him. Or,” Dorian added, “they may be vying for his favour.”

Trevelyan turned to look at him, his perplexed frown carving a line between his brows. “How so?”

Dorian shrugged. “There are lots of powerful mages amidst the Venatori. Mages who were always used to having power and status. Being nameless agents in a sea of hundreds, if not thousands, of other nameless agents is not something that would appeal to them. Maybe they’re competing against each other, trying to achieve something that would elevate them, to lieutenants, commanders, trusted advisors… the list goes on.”

“But why would they not want Corypheus to know, if they’re doing something that might gain his favour?”

“Perhaps because they don’t want the other Venatori to know. Or because they’re going against Corypheus’ direct orders.”

Trevelyan twisted his ring, his frown getting deeper. He shook his head. “This is still not making sense. Why would they be going against Corypheus’ wishes, if they want to gain his favour?”

Dorian laughed mirthfully. “Oh, how young and green you are, my dear.”

Trevelyan shot him a sidelong frown. “I’m not young,” he grumbled, somewhat petulantly, but soon his tightened lips relaxed in a teasing smile. “And I’m certainly not green,” he said, sliding his palm down Dorian’s spine before smoothing it over his behind and giving it a light, but certainly audible slap.

Dorian barely managed to bite back his yelp, and felt his blood rushing to his face when Varric turned around to look at them. Trevelyan had an obnoxious, smug grin on his face as he walked ahead of him, out of his grasp.

Dorian shot Trevelyan a murderous glare when he glanced at him over his shoulder. His cheeks were rosy from his suppressed laughter, his dark blue eyes glittering with mischief. He bounced a little on his feet as he walked, sliding his hands into his pockets, whistling a merry tune. The perfect portrait of a carefree youth, smiling with a secret that only he knew. Dorian’s heart quivered in his chest, just as he wanted to wipe that smirk off his lips with his own.

_Oh, just you wait till I get you alone again._

Argon’s Lodge was quite the stronghold, as they found out when they approached. The wooden wall around the main hold looked sturdy and well-built, with newly made buttresses and palisades. The Freemen guarding it where armed to the teeth, their plate armours glinting in the afternoon sun.

They all stopped a little way away, crouched behind a set of thick trees and bushes, obscured by the thick foliage.

Varric grumbled under his breath when he counted more than ten guards, and those were just the ones outside the hold’s wooden walls.

“Perhaps you should have accepted Fairbanks’s advice, Blondie,” he muttered. “A few more people might have been of help.”

Trevelyan sighed tiredly. “They were _children_ , Varric. Children and old men. If I took them with us, I would be leading them to their deaths. Or grave injuries, that would eventually lead to their deaths.” He shook his head. “No. I couldn’t accept Fairbanks’s help. The more I talk to the man, the more convinced I become that he is, indeed, a noble. He certainly has no clue about fighting. Or bargaining, for that matter. Besides, I’m sure that we’ll be able to beat them. Isn’t that right, Cassandra?” he added with a half-smile, tapping Cassandra lightly on the arm with the back of his hand.

Cassandra glanced at him, her surprise evident in her features, before returning his smile with one of her own, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. For the second time that day, Varric’s eyes went so wide, Dorian thought they would pop right out of their sockets, and gave Dorian a quizzical look, as if he were the one responsible for Trevelyan’s sudden change in behaviour.

Well. Perhaps he was a little responsible for that, after all.

The Freemen put up a decent fight. Their numbers were at times overwhelming, just as Fairbanks had said, but in the end they relented under Cassandra’s sword, Trevelyan’s daggers, Varric’s arrows and, most importantly, Dorian’s own spells. The inside of the Lodge was humble and relatively unkempt, and the place’s already meagre accommodations had been greatly overburdened by the number of Freemen living in it, but it still held quite well. In the wooden huts that served as storage rooms they also found a surprising number of grain sacks, blocks of cheese with their wax covers still untouched, dried and cured meat and bottles of wine. They took some for themselves, and left the rest for the refugees that would surely surge to the place after they left. Fairbanks’s scouts had followed them there, and Trevelyan had sent word back to the man that the place had been cleared, and was safe for them to move.

When they all returned to their camp and sat around the fire that night, the mood was merry and relaxed. Trevelyan was sipping wine, a rare vintage he had found in a crate behind several big sacks of grain. Dorian could never understand how he always managed to sniff out the best drinks wherever they went, but he was glad he had. The wine was indeed exquisite, rich and mellow, its colour so dark red it looked like fresh blood.

“So,” Varric said, stuffing some smoking leaf he had found into his pipe, “Fairbanks was indeed a noble. Who would have thought?”

“I did,” Trevelyan replied, shooting him an amused glance. “I told you he was, didn’t I?”

“Speculating is one thing, Blondie. Anyone with a brain and a mouth can come up with all sorts of theories. Finding the evidence is entirely different.”

Cassandra nodded her assent, chewing on a piece of cured sausage she had warmed over the fire. “I can’t believe the Freemen would have information like that. That painting we found in their storage room, and Lord LeMarque’s journal… Why would they keep it there?”

“Perhaps they didn’t know what it was," Dorian mused. Trevelyan picked up the bottle and refilled his cup, flashing him a small smile as he did so. "From what I’ve seen, they do have a tendency to hoard whatever they find in those nobles’ villas. Maybe they were thinking of selling them.”

Trevelyan scoffed. “Sell them? To whom? The giants or the mountain goats? There doesn’t seem to be anyone interested in buying them around those parts.”

“Fairbanks seemed more than eager to buy them off you when you presented them to him,” Dorian said.

“Ah, yes,” Varric chuckled. “His face changed a hundred colours. I bet he didn’t expect anyone to dig up any information on his lineage. Perhaps the Freemen were planning to blackmail him.”

“I doubt it,” Trevelyan said, shaking his head. “They would have done it already. These paintings were simply sitting there, gathering dust. They must have been left there for months. Fairbanks himself didn’t even know what they were about at first.”

Cassandra looked at him over the fire. The flames reflected in her dark brown eyes, making them shimmer in the night. “I didn’t expect you to just give them to him. We could have used his connections, were he to assume his true name once more.”

Trevelyan let out a long sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t just _make_ him do that, Cassandra. A man should have the right to keep his identity hidden, if he so wishes. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, anyway. I might not like him very much, but what he’s done for the refugees here cannot be denied. Besides,” he added, “he has sworn allegiance to the Inquisition, now. He will be giving us any information he comes across, and his people will help defend the Emerald Graves along with our own. I think it all worked out for the best.”

“I think so, too,” Cassandra said earnestly. “Giving Argon’s Lodge over to the refugees and letting Fairbanks keep his name was… noble of you, Inquisitor. Truly.”

The smile on Trevelyan’s face was a startled, but genuine one. Cassandra returned it with one of her own, and Dorian was once again astonished to see the flash of admiration in her eyes, a tiny flicker before she turned away.

It wasn’t long after that Cassandra and Varric retired to their tents, and Dorian and Trevelyan were left on their own. As soon as Varric’s tent flap closed securely behind him, Dorian slid closer to Trevelyan by the fire.

“Cassandra is right, you know,” Dorian said softly.

Trevelyan glanced at him quizzically. “Oh?”

“It was indeed noble of you to offer to help the refugees today.” He gave him a teasing smile. “I think the Seeker is becoming quite fond of you.”

“Is she?” Trevelyan asked him, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “She’s no longer glaring at me like I'm drowning kittens in my spare time, so I think you may be right.”

“Oh, you’ve stopped doing that, have you? Thank the Maker, I was getting quite sick of their mewling.”

Trevelyan's laughter came out muffled from within his cup as he raised it to take a long draught. Dorian mirrored him, the rim of his own cup hiding the wide smile that blossomed on his face. He savoured the rich, sweet taste of the dark wine on his tongue, but there was nothing sweeter at that moment than the sound of Trevelyan’s laugh.

Dorian watched him as he picked up the wine bottle from the ground and glanced at its label, like he had so many times before. “I still find it hard to believe that the Freemen would have wine like that in their storage rooms,” he said, swirling the liquid inside it softly. “It says here it was bottled in 9:23 Dragon. That was an excellent year for Orlesian wines, especially the ones from the Val Fontaine vineyards. And it was just sitting there, forgotten in a crate inside a random storage room. Isn’t it odd?”

“They most probably looted it from one of the villas around here,” Dorian replied. “Perhaps they had kept it there precisely because it was so rare.”

Trevelyan shook his head. “No. They probably didn’t even know they had it, or what it was exactly. Otherwise they would have drank it already. I certainly would have.”

“Indeed," Dorian said teasingly. "I doubt anyone else knows as much about wine as you do, _amatus_.“

The world left his mouth before he had the mind to stop it. He bit his lip, looking carefully away when Trevelyan glanced at him, a silent question in his gaze.

"What was that?" 

Dorian huffed a small, awkward laugh, waving the query away. “Oh, nothing. A slip of the tongue. I guess I've had enough wine for one night.”

Trevelyan’s eyebrows drew closer together, the small line between them deepening. “What does it mean?”

“It…” Dorian started, then stopped. In the few long, agonizing seconds that followed, he wracked his brain for a convincing lie, but his treacherous heart beating in his throat was making it impossible to think. He let out a sharp exhale before he spoke. “It means beloved," he said quickly. "Pay it no mind. It’s something people in Tevinter say all the time. It's certainly nothing special, nothing to-”

“You called me… beloved?”

Dorian turned to face him. Trevelyan’s dark, liquid eyes were fixed on his, with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs. He was fully clothed, yet for the first time that day Dorian felt bare, exposed. Caught out. He swallowed thickly, trying to think of something to say, anything at all, when Trevelyan placed his cup on the ground and slid close to him. He snaked one arm around his waist, the other gently cupping the back of his neck as he pulled him flush against him.

“Say it again,” he whispered. “One more time.”

The wave of relief that rushed through him half-choked him. Dorian pulled back just a little to peer at him, tenderness swelling in his chest at the sight of his plush, wine-stained lips, so close to his.

"I'll only say it once," he said with feigned sternness. "Better not get too used to it."

Trevelyan grinned, seeing right through him. "That's all I ask."

Dorian lost track of how many times he said it over the course of the night. He said it in breathless whispers by the campfire, against Trevelyan's lips as he pulled him towards the tent, in the darkness when their bodies met, again and again. Trevelyan held him close, long after their hearts had found their normal rhythm. They kissed slowly, languidly, as if they had all the time in the world.

And that night, they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/) :)


	20. Feathers on Fresh Snow

“Meet me at the gates tomorrow morning. There is… someone I want you to meet.”

Varric’s cryptic invitation had not meant much to Tristan at first. He had just finished unsaddling his horse after they had returned from the Emerald Graves when the dwarf approached him. His voice had been carefully lowered, yet it hadn’t escaped Cassandra’s attention, who emerged from the nearby stall after Varric had left.

“It’d better not be who I think it is,” she had said, grinding her teeth. Her dark brown eyes sparked with anger as she glared at Varric’s back.

Tristan had been intrigued.

He had quickly forgotten about the whole thing – he had far too much to occupy himself with, after all, returning to his Inquisitorial duties after being gone for so long – yet as the hours went by and the commotion of the day melted into the hushed quiet of the night, he found himself pondering on Varric’s strange behaviour, and Cassandra’s even stranger reaction. From her anger, he knew it could only be one of Varric’s friends from Kirkwall. Perhaps even the Champion himself.

Tristan had heard much about him. He was quite certain there was no one in the Free Marches that didn’t know his name, and what he had done. He was particularly notorious amongst the Ostwick nobility, who spoke his name in hushed whispers, as if he were a demon of some sort. To say that his interest was piqued would be an understatement.

Still, his interest alone shouldn’t have been enough to keep him up at night. It had been a tiring day, and a tiring night, albeit in an entirely different way – Dorian had made sure of that – but sleep still refused to come. The golden light of morning now slithered through the window blinds, shrouding the small room in a soft, hazy glow, and his eyes were still wide open, staring at the ceiling.

With his arm tucked under his head, Tristan studied his surroundings. He had never visited Dorian’s room before. It was evident that Dorian had taken great care to make it look inviting, perhaps even homely. The narrow shelf next to the window was stacked with books and vials, carefully arranged in alphabetical order. The dark mahogany desk was neat and tidy, the vase on top of it holding a single embrium flower. There were more vials and books by the window sill, and on top of one of his travel chests was a silver tray, with a set of crystal glasses and a decanter, which was empty now.

The room was admittedly small and somewhat crammed, certainly much more humble than what Dorian was no doubt used to, but Tristan still felt more at ease there than in his own private quarters. Perhaps it was Dorian’s cologne mingled with his deep, earthy scent that lingered in every corner. Or the fact that the room’s window overlooked a corner of the courtyard where orange trees bloomed, instead of the frosty mountain peaks, like Tristan’s did. The glowing embers in the hearth bathed the room in a warm, golden light, whereas his much grander fireplace never quite managed to dispel the damp that still lingered in the dense stone. Tristan’s quarters were grand, spacious, luxurious; and he felt cold and tiny in them.

He let his eyes glide over Dorian’s sleeping form. His back was to him, the blankets moving softly with his breath. His hair was messy from sleep and black as night against the stark white of the pillow, raven feathers scattered on a field of snow. A bare shoulder peeked from underneath the covers, skin like burnished gold under the soft sunlight. Tristan wanted nothing more than to slither close to him, pull him flush against him and get forever lost in his inviting warmth.

Yet, Varric would be waiting for him. With a sigh, Tristan pushed the blanket off him, and rolled out of bed. He pulled on his breeches and his shirt, careful not to make any noise. His dark blue coat had been carelessly tossed on a chair the previous night, and he threw it over his shoulders, not even bothering to button it up. With a last lingering glance at Dorian’s back, he twisted the door latch and walked out into the crisp, cold morning air.

Nhudem’s face greeted him as soon as he stepped out.

“Your Worship!” he said eagerly, bowing to him.

Tristan blinked, as much from his surprise as from the bright sunlight that strained his eyes. He still hadn’t got used to the fact that he was now supposed to have a personal guard wherever he went. Cullen had informed him of that as soon as he had stepped foot in Skyhold the previous day, and had promptly introduced him to the people that would be spending all of their time following him about and standing outside of whichever room he was supposed to be in.

Nhudem, of course, was one of them – it had not been lost on the Commander that Tristan had saved his life at Haven and thus, would be all the more eager to protect him. The others were agents of his that had shown impressive potential, and had been hand-picked by him, as he had proudly told him.

Tristan had grumbled his acceptance, more so because he knew it was no use arguing against Cullen on that. Besides, it seemed Leliana and Josephine had already agreed, and the paperwork on the guard’s new positions had already been filed.

Nhudem now stood at attention before him, awaiting his orders. Maighdin, the other guard, scrambled up from where she had been sitting on the hard stone floor. She was a grim looking woman, with a thin mouth and eyes the colour of steel. She was tall and robust, and strong as an ox. Her dark red hair was cropped short, and the battle scars on her face and arms were testament to her experience. She didn’t smile much, unlike Nhudem, but Cullen had said she had been one of his most trusted and skilled soldiers.

Trusted and skilled soldiers, and now they had spent the better part of the night sitting on the floor, guarding him from what, exactly? Tristan could not know.

“Nhudem,” Tristan said, feeling his mood instantly turning sour, “I thought I dismissed you last night.”

Nhudem gulped nervously. “You did, my lord.”

Tristan waited for a moment longer, then when the man didn’t speak, he turned to Maighdin. “Well?”

The woman stood at attention, her gaze firmly above his head. “Commander Cullen has ordered us to never leave you out of our sight, Your Worship.”

Tristan let out a sharp huff. Of course he had. It had been naïve of him to think that he could have even a moment to himself, without people following him about. Not to mention that everybody and their brothers would have noticed the Inquisitor’s guards standing watch outside of Dorian’s room. If there was any doubt as to how he chose to spend his nights these days, it was long gone now.

Oh, fuck it. They probably all already knew.

Without a word, Tristan marched ahead, leaving his guards to scramble behind him. A stop by his quarters to get his stout black woollen cloak and his fur lined gloves, and off to the stables they went. The keep was largely silent at that time of day - not even the washerwomen or the scullery maids were up this early. Varric had stressed that whatever meeting he was leading him to was one that needed to be kept secret. Yet, with Nhudem’s and Maighdin’s heavy bootsteps ringing across the large, empty hallways, it felt like he was leading a procession of some sort, a loud enough one to alert everyone within a mile of his presence. So much for keeping anything secret in that cursed place.

Tristan gritted his teeth and walked on. Damn him for ever agreeing to this! Damn his fool head!

He was silently seething by the time they reached the stables. Varric was already there, his short roan gelding saddled and bridled. His brows furrowed slightly when he saw the guards trailing behind him, but his frown instantly disappeared when he opened his mouth.

“Blondie!” he greeted him cheerfully. “You’re on time. The early bird catches the worm, eh?”

Tristan’s response was an annoyed grunt as he walked past him and into the stables. A stable boy ran after him, but Tristan sharply waved him away. He didn’t need anyone’s help in choosing his own bloody horse.

The Inquisition’s stables were filled with horses these days, and more were arriving every week. The wooden building with the low thatched roof by the inner keep was for his and his Inner Circle’s mounts only, and even they were slowly getting full. There was no shortage of nobles and wealthy merchants from all over Thedas that would send him expensive gifts for a chance to get in his good graces. Tristan didn’t have much use for jewellery and rare gemstones from Nevarra, or expertly carved golden plates and vases from Antiva, or intricate mechanical apparatuses in the shapes of various animals that moved on their own without magic, straight from the dwarven smiths in Orzammar. They were wonderful to look at, but Tristan soon got bored of them.

But _horses_ – those Tristan would never get bored of.

He walked down the long row of stalls, the horses watching him curiously, until he stopped before the palomino Free Marches mare that a noble from Starkhaven had gifted him. A tall and strong animal, but with a delicate frame and a surprisingly gentle nature. Free Marcher coursers were known to be headstrong – he should know, the Trevelyan mansion stables had always been filled with them – and he himself veered towards lively, spirited mounts, but he had instantly been drawn to her. Tilly used to have one just like her, a gelding with a glossy, buttery mane which she used to call Almond. Tristan had sneered at the name back then, but now he found it quite apt.

Almond tossed her head back when she saw him, and Tristan reached out to stroke her neck. Perhaps Almond wasn’t as formidable a name for the mount of the Inquisition’s leader, but Tristan thought it suited her just fine. Her large, dark brown eyes were watching him calmly, and the milky white spot on her forehead did remind him of an almond somewhat.

The animal neighed softly when he patted her nose, and Tristan smiled. He always did have a soft spot for horses.

Saddling and bridling her was a task that he did with mechanical movements, not even thinking about it. He gently led her out of the stall and into the courtyard, where the others were. Varric’s no doubt very witty jokes had the stern Maighdin smiling, and Nhudem was laughing outright, but they both straightened up when they saw him.

“Will we be going far, my lord?” Nhudem asked, eyeing the horse. “Shall we get mounts, too?”

“No,” Tristan replied dryly. “You’ll be staying here.”

Nhudem blinked at him. “L-lord?”

Tristan rolled his eyes as he placed his foot on the stirrup and hauled himself up. “Varric and I will be going alone.”

“But, Your Worship,” Nhudem began again, his eyes wide just as Maighdin’s were narrowed, “Commander Cullen has said-“

“Do you take your orders from the Commander, or from me?” Tristan snapped at him. Maker, but he really lacked patience that day.

The poor man paled and scrambled for words. Maighdin cleared her throat and raised her gaze to his. “From both of you, Your Worship.”

“Good,” Tristan said, somewhat more mildly. “So, I order you to stay here. I won’t be long.”

“As you wish, Your Worship,” she said, her tone a touch more sour than Tristan would have expected.

He snapped Almond’s reins and let her guide him to the gates without looking back. In all honestly, he couldn’t wait to be away from Skyhold, if only for a moment.

“The Inquisitor’s work never stops, does it?” Varric said teasingly once they were out of earshot. “Ordering so many people about must be tiring.”

Tristan let his lips curve in a tiny, reserved smile. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Varric’s horse fell in beside his as they rode across the bridge. The strong mountain wind hit them square in the face as soon as they were away from the protective magical bubble that surrounded the hold. It was odd, really, how magic could do something like this. Skyhold sat at the top of a mountain, the ice and frozen lakes that lay below it glistening in the sun that did nothing to warm the frigid air, yet inside it flowers blossomed all year round. Very odd, indeed.

An icy gust made his cloak whip about him, and Tristan pulled his hood over his head. It was a chilly morning, and the bright sunlight reflecting on the snow half-blinded him. He squinted as they reached the far side of the bridge, and their horses’ hooves touched fresh snow. He gazed around him, at the life that lay beyond Skyhold and its formidable walls. When they had first arrived there, there had only been a few carriages and tents set up for those that couldn’t stay inside the keep for lack of space. Now, there were rows upon rows of tents and hovels and hastily built shacks that covered the entire mountainside, as far as the eye could see. Smoke from campfires and hearths drifted towards the clear, white sky, and the hustle and bustle of the camp was only partly drowned out by the wind howling through the forest.

A few heads turned towards them as they rode, and Tristan retreated further into his cloak.

“More and more people are arriving every day from all over Thedas,” Varric remarked absently. “Soon, not even the mountain will be enough to hold them all.”

Tristan grunted his assent. It was true that the stream of refugees was never ending, and Skyhold’s main keep had barely been enough to hold all of them when they had arrived, when they were only a few hundreds. Now, the Inquisition’s forces counted in the thousands, and were ever growing. It still struck him as strange that people would leave their homes to travel all the way to a frigid mountain, but such was the way of the world those days.

“As long as there is war and instability, and as long as the countryside is plagued by rifts and demons, the swarms of refugees won’t stop,” Tristan said, thinking aloud. His stomach tightened when a throng of children emerged from between the hovels and gazed curiously at them, their clothes far too big for them and terribly worn. He spurred his horse on, careful not to let his face show. “Thedas is in chaos.”

“You’ve got that right, Blondie,” Varric said. “But there’s no need to be so gloomy. The Inquisition is a safe haven. A beacon of hope, if you want to be poetic about it. That, at least, should count for something.”

Tristan shifted uncomfortably on his saddle. Varric’s words did nothing to appease him. Since his open support of mages across Thedas, a lot of people had abandoned their places and left. Yet, upon returning to Skyhold, Tristan had been surprised to find that the gaps in their ranks had been more than filled by mages. The Templar Order was still a shambles, and the Seekers were hiding behind their fortress’s walls, for all anyone knew. The Chantry didn’t have enough manpower to control the mages in many Circles, so many escaped and travelled all the way to Skyhold, where word had spread that it was somewhat safer.

The Inquisition’s accommodations at that moment were far less than humble, but the complaints that Tristan had expected hadn’t come. It seemed that many mages preferred the Inquisition’s hovels and the icy mountaintop to the relative comfort of their Circle.

“It’s good that the mages are leaving the Circles and coming here. We need as many people as we can get, and the less mages the Chantry has under its control the better,” Tristan said, gazing down the mountain. “Still, we have heard nothing from the Chantry. And that worries me.”

Varric turned to him, his frown obscured by the shadow of his hood. “How so?”

Tristan’s lips tightened in a line. Thinking about the Chantry always made his blood boil and his head ache. “Surely, they can’t be happy with their mages leaving like this to join us,” he said sourly. “We are a threat, bigger than what they have seen in ages. They might not have the men or weapons now to oppose us, but as long as there are people praying to Andraste and filling their coffers, they will always have power. It’s a matter of when they will decide to use it against us.”

Varric nodded thoughtfully. “Words can be just as dangerous as weapons. Sometimes even more so. And you have done more than enough to rile them, that’s for sure. But whatever damage they could have done they’ve already done it. People believe in the Inquisition, and the Chantry cannot shake that.”

Tristan seriously doubted that. The Chantrics were sly bastards, and their venomous preachings spread quicker than wildfire sometimes. They were still a headless order, Divine Justinia’s death having dealt a serious blow to their infrastructure and causing it to almost crumble. But the bite of a wounded and cornered animal was often worse than that of a confident one. Not to mention the possibility of them choosing a new Divine, and one that would come after them with a vengeance. That was, unless he somehow managed to influence that choice, and then…

Tristan rubbed at his tired eyes, already feeling the tightness about his temples taking hold. It was moments like these that he felt completely out of his depth.

They rode through the camp at a steady trot. Varric was shifting on his saddle, his gaze straight ahead of him. Wherever it was he was taking him, he didn’t seem overly eager to get there. The pensive frown seemed slightly out of place on his face, that usually wore a cheerful expression no matter what they were facing. It made Tristan uneasy, but he kept his mouth shut. He trusted Varric. _As much as anyone can be trusted these days, anyway._

The thought shot a sharp pang of bitterness through him. He clenched his jaw and rode on, determined not to let the feeling linger.

Soon, they had left the hovels and tents behind them, and were following the narrow, winding road through the dense forest. A tall ash tree came into view as the mountain road twisted and curved, its thick trunk split in two as it reached towards the sky. Varric pulled on his horse’s reins, and it stopped before the trunk.

“This way,” he said, guiding his mount off the road and up the slope beyond the ash tree, but not before a quick glance behind his shoulder.

Tristan followed him, his curiosity increasing. There was no path that he could see, and he simply trailed after Varric, carefully steering Almond around any raised roots and large stones that he could see. Riding a horse through a forest was risky, and the snow and ice made the ground treacherous. He was relieved when they finally stopped before a small wooden building, that looked like an abandoned hunter’s cabin.

Varric dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to a nearby branch, and Tristan followed suit reluctantly, not quite able to hide his suspicious frown.

“You’ll soon find out what this is all about,” Varric told him, noticing his expression.

The old, decrepit door creaked as it swung on its hinges. It was dark inside the cabin, save for the light slithering in through a small window at the back.

“This… is Hawke,” Varric said, standing to the side.

The man that turned around to glance at them was tall and broad of shoulder, the top of his head almost reaching the top of the low roofed building. The greatsword that was strapped to his back looked heavy and well made, the image of a hawk engraved on its long hilt. Half of his dark hair was tied with a leather cord, while the rest fell in messy waves about his shoulders. His dark brown eyes, when he fixed them on Tristan, were cold and examining, but the smirk on his lips looked almost amused.

Tristan had heard a lot about Hawke. What the rumours had carefully left out was that he was quite handsome, if in a somewhat gruff sort of way.

“Inquisitor,” Hawke said, covering the space between them in a large stride. “Aedan Hawke. Pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand out to Tristan, who shook it reluctantly.

Varric shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I figured Hawke would have some friendly advice for you.”

Tristan frowned at him. “Advice? What sort of advice?”

Hawke’s smirk widened in a teasing smile, directed at his friend. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

“Let’s… just say I was waiting for the right moment.”

“The right moment to tell me what?” Tristan demanded. He was getting ever more impatient with Varric’s secrecy. “Speak plainly, Varric. I don’t have time for this.”

Hawke gave Tristan a quick look over, as if he were appraising him. 

“Varric thought I would be able to help you in your fight against Corypheus,” he said. “Considering we’ve already fought the bastard.”

Tristan’s breath caught in his throat. “You _what_?”

“It’s true,” Varric said. “We did fight him.”

“You knew about Corypheus?” Tristan asked incredulously, fighting to keep his voice level. The look he shot Varric almost had the dwarf taking a step back, but he stood his ground. “You knew about all this and you said nothing?”

“Listen, I know how this looks, Blondie,” Varric said apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I only learned about Corypheus the same time you did. At Haven. And after that… Well, I wanted Hawke to be there too when I told you. It took time for him to come from… wherever it is he was.”

“Oh, you can tell him, Varric. No need to be so secretive.” Hawke had a confident, easy smile, and the lines around his eyes showed that he did smile often, but his gaze remained careful and calculating when it was on Tristan. “ I stayed in Antiva for a few months while I waited for the storm to blow over. No shame in enjoying myself with some good wine and even better company, is there?”

“Where you were staying is of no concern to me,” Tristan retorted through tight lips, cutting him short. “You claim you fought Corypheus?”

“We did,” Hawke said, straightening up and regarding him with a serious expression. “The Grey Wardens were holding him in Kirkwall, but he somehow managed to use their connection to the darkspawn to influence their minds and make them do his bidding. We killed him that day.”

“ _Killed_ him?” Tristan echoed, not quite able to hide his disbelief. This meeting was getting more and more surreal by the second, and his patience was rapidly thinning. He scowled at both of them. “You must think me an imbecile, to come to me with tales like these.”

An annoyed frown crossed Hawke’s face, but he swiftly checked himself. “These are no tales, Inquisitor. Varric was there with me. He was dead as a stone when we were done with him. But he somehow managed to resurrect himself. Maybe it was his tie to the Blight that brought him back, or old Tevinter magic.” He gave him a wide, affable smile. “You take your pick.”

Tristan bridled at his mocking tone. He crossed his arms before him and gave him a hard look. “Alright. Let’s say I believe you. What use is that information to me now? You clearly have no clue who or what he is, and how he does what he does.”

If he was insulted, Hawke showed no sign of it. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if stating the obvious. “I’ve heard the Wardens have disappeared. Since we already know that Corypheus can control them, it could be that they are under his influence again.”

Of course. The Grey Wardens. Tristan cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner.

He rubbed his chin, pretending to be sceptical about Hawke’s news, but in reality, he felt like screaming. How much power did Corypheus wield? He had been killed by Varric and Hawke, yet he had somehow managed to defy death itself. He also controlled the Red Templars, the Venatori, and now, possibly the Wardens as well. How could Tristan ever hope to defeat him?

The mild headache he had had when he first entered that cabin was slowly turning into a migraine. He was clearly _not_ cut out for this.

There was a glint of amusement in Hawke’s eyes, no doubt from having made him look like a fool. With a sharp breath to collect his thoughts, Tristan shot him a haughty glance over his nose. “We cannot know that for certain. The Grey Wardens have always been known to have their own agenda. It could be that they’re on some quest of their own.”

“I see your time in Ferelden has rubbed off on you, has it?” Hawke said with a wide smile. “Fereldans have always been wary of the Wardens. How many years has it been since they banished the Order for trying to dethrone that king of theirs? A century? Two centuries?”

“An Age and a half,” Varric replied. “They certainly know how to hold a grudge.”

“This has nothing to do with me spending time in Ferelden,” Tristan said, grinding his teeth. Hawke and his mocking tone were grating at his nerves. “Surely, you cannot expect me to go after the Grey Wardens just because _you_ believe they are controlled by Corypheus.”

“Of course not, Inquisitor. That would be madness. Who do you take me for?”

Tristan resisted the urge to narrow his eyes and scowl at him, and instead stared at him expressionlessly until Hawke’s feigned look of shock and disbelief melted away. “Alright, alright,” he said with a placating gesture. “You clearly have things to do, and I’m taking up your time. I’ve got a friend in the Wardens. Last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the ranks. If anyone knows anything about Corypheus’ connection to the Wardens, it’s him.”

“Where is that friend of yours?”

“He told me he’d be hiding in an old smuggler’s cave in Crestwood. I could take you there, if you wish.”

Tristan considered Hawke’s proposition carefully. He didn’t know if he could trust the man, or that Warden friend of his. Varric had vouched for him, but Tristan hardly knew if he could fully trust even him anymore. He had thought of him as a friend, but he had chosen to keep this hidden from him for so long. Who knew what else he was hiding?

The thought stung, deeply and sharply, but he stubbornly brushed it away. This was no time to ponder on the value of true friendship in a world that was tearing at the seams. And in any case, any investigation Leliana had started in order to find more information about the Wardens’ moves had led to a dead end. Trust or no trust, there was not much room for choice now.

Tristan held Hawke’s gaze firmly before he spoke. “Alright. Let’s go to Crestwood as soon as possible. I want to hear what that man has to say.”

Hawke nodded, brows knit in a serious frown. “Good. Varric will let me know when you’ll be setting off.”

Tristan turned to leave, when Hawke’s arm on his elbow stopped him. “Corypheus is my responsibility, Inquisitor. I thought it’d killed him before. This time, I’ll make sure of it.”

He looked at Hawke then, _really_ looked at him. There was no mocking glint in his eyes, no amusement hidden in the curve of his lip. Hawke returned his gaze levelly, determination plain in his features. Tristan doubted a lot about him, but at that moment he was certain he meant what he had said.

Memories of Corypheus flashed in his mind, of his horrible face so close to his, of the sickening glow of the red lyrium in his blood shot eyes. He remembered the screams, the fire, the fresh snow turning crimson as Haven fell under the force of his armies. He remembered Flissa’s lifeless body, buried under a mountain of burning logs, and his blood ran hot and thick in his veins.

“No,” he said, pulling his arm free from Hawke’s grasp. “Corypheus is _my_ responsibility. I’m the bloody saviour this world is stuck with. I’m the one he’s after, and the only one that can ever hope to stand against him. When the time comes for me to kill him, you’ll be nowhere near.”

And with that, he turned away. Neither Hawke nor Varric said a word as he walked out of the cabin and into the bitter cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of world-building and Tristan trying to wrap his head around politics in preparation for the next arc :)
> 
> For those who haven't read The Calling, the incident with the Wardens that Hawke mentioned is one where a Grey Warden commander was involved in a failed coup d'etat to dethrone King Arland in 7:5 Storm. They were banished from Ferelden, and only allowed back when King Maric came to power in 9:10 Dragon.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! xoxo


	21. Driftwood

The howling wind and their horses’ hooves on the soft snow were the only sounds for a long while as Tristan and Varric made their way back to Skyhold. Tristan rode a little way ahead, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, never looking back. He could feel Varric’s eyes on him, and could hear him shifting on his saddle, but none of them spoke a word to each other.

Tristan patted his coat pocket, cursing himself silently for having forgotten to bring his flask with him. Even if he had, though, brandy wouldn’t be enough to wash the bitter taste from his mouth.

It had stung to think that Varric had joked and drunk ale with him, played Wicked Grace and fought by his side for months, all while hiding something like this. Tristan himself had never even doubted him, never felt suspicious of him, not for a single moment. He should have known better. He should have been more careful, more observant, more astute. Varric had only been trying to protect his friend -or so he had claimed-, and had come clean in the end, no harm done, yet more questions nagged at him. What if he and Hawke hadn’t told him the full truth? What if they were luring him into a trap? What if more of the people around him, people he had thought could be trusted, hid information from him? What if plots and schemes were being arranged behind his back, and all he could see were smiling faces and courteous bows? What if even his guards had been stationed there to spy on him, by Leliana or Cullen or whoever wanted to keep tabs on him? What if….

Tristan let out an exasperated huff as he kicked his horse forward. The thought of a cup of warmed buttered brandy seemed incredibly tempting to him right at that moment.

He almost - _almost_ \- let out a sigh of relief when he saw Skyhold’s tall towers and its thick stone walls in the far distance. It stood high and proud amongst the jagged rocks, the emblem of the Inquisition as much as it was entirely distinct from it. A mystery in its own right, and the home that would never feel like home to him. 

The high, stout gates opened wide as soon as Tristan tossed the hood of his cloak back. The guards at the gates stood at attention, knuckling their foreheads as he passed them by, but Tristan didn’t even glance at them. He unhurriedly rode towards the stables, where Master Dennet came out to greet him.

The horse master of the Inquisition had a dark, leathery face, deeply lined from age and hard work. His eyes, dark as buttons, glided over Almond, his brows furrowing when he saw her snow covered hooves. He stooped down, picking up one of her legs to inspect the shoes underneath.

“She needs new shoes,” he said tartly, taking her reins as Tristan dismounted. “Free Marcher coursers are not meant for riding through the snow.” 

“Then see it done,” Tristan said, just as tartly, and his voice twice as clipped. “There’s nothing but snow around here, old man.”

Dennet gave him a hard look under his bushy brows, and let out a grunt as he led Almond to the stables. Tristan clicked his tongue in annoyance and turned around. As if a Fereldan could ever give a Free Marcher pointers about Free Marcher steeds. It seemed everyone was bent on testing his patience that day.

He barely acknowledged Nhudem and Maighdin that fell in behind him, appearing as if from thin air. The hold was now bustling with activity, agents and servants going about their daily business, recruits training by the straw dummies. Tristan noted with mild curiosity the peddlers that had set up their stalls at the lower yard and were showing off their wares to the passers-by. 

There were certainly a lot more of them than there had been only months before. Tristan was pondering on how much had changed since they had first arrived there, when he spotted Cassandra in the yard. She had been showing two recruits how to properly bash an enemy with their shield when their eyes locked. She dropped her training shield on the ground and stomped up to him, her mailed bootsteps ringing across the stone walls.

“It was the Champion of Kirkwall, wasn’t it?” she asked him, her voice lowered to a hiss.

Tristan blinked at her, then frowned. “This does not concern you, Cassandra.”

“Where is he?” she growled, as if Tristan hadn’t spoken.

“Pardon?”

“The _dwarf_ ,” she said, her voice thick with contempt. “Where is he?”

Tristan opened his mouth to ask her what on earth she wanted of him, when Cassandra’s gaze left him to fix on something right behind him. A scowl twisted her features and she stalked off, leaving Tristan to stare after her.

Varric was just a few paces behind them, and his eyes widened when he saw her approaching. He made as if to turn around and disappear through the crowd, when the Seeker caught him by his coat collar.

“What the-“ he started, but only managed to let out a sharp huff as Cassandra half lifted him off the ground and dragged him towards the armory building that lay beyond the training yard. The people around the yard had stopped whatever it was they were doing to stare at them, and a susurrus of whispers was slowly beginning to spread amongst the crowd. 

With a sharp huff, Tristan hurried after them. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful. Cassandra killing Varric was possibly the very last thing he needed that day.

He hadn’t taken two steps before a small girl emerged from the crowd and ran towards him.

“Papa!” she shouted, a wide smile crossing her face.

Tristan froze where he was, blinking at her. He almost edged back she approached him, getting out of her way, but she ran straight past him to throw herself on Nhudem instead. 

“Meena,” Nhudem grunted as she hugged his middle tightly, “Papa’s busy now.”

He gently pushed her away, his nervousness plain on his features when he eyed Tristan. The girl had dark curly hair like Nhudem, but that was where the similarities ended. Nhudem had a long, straight nose and a wide mouth, whereas his daughter’s nose was short and somewhat hooked, and her mouth plump and pouty like a rosebud. She couldn’t have been older than eight or nine.

“I…” Tristan started, taking his eyes off the girl to look at Nhudem. “I didn’t know you had a family.”

Nhudem straightened, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I do, Your Worship,” he said simply. “There used to be more of us. My wife died when giving birth to Meena, and my brother in law was lost at Haven. May the Maker rest their souls.”

“May the Maker rest their souls,” Maighdin echoed solemnly.

“It’s just me and Meena now.” He gave the girl a warm smile and patted her on the head. “But we manage, don’t we?”

The girl frowned slightly, but gave him a nod. She was watching Tristan carefully with her big, honey brown eyes, and his heart tightened. He didn’t remember ever seeing so much sadness in a child’s eyes. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Nhudem,” Tristan said, and he truly meant it. “Had I known…”

 _Had I known, what? What would I possibly have done?_ He felt a sting of shame at realizing how little he knew about the people around him. Nhudem and Maighdin had only been a nuisance to him so far, a necessary evil that he had had to put up with. He never once stopped to think about who they were, what their lives were like, what they have gone through, why they were even there. Blight, he hadn’t even bothered to ask Cullen about them. He had simply accepted it as fact that they were there to serve him and obediently follow him, without question. 

As he was wont to do with everyone these days, it seemed. Even Varric, who he had been so angry with but a moment before, had been through more than Tristan could ever have imagined, although he never really spoke about it. Could Tristan really fault him for trying to protect his friend, perhaps the only true friend he had left?

For the umpteenth time that day, he cursed himself. The world needed him, yes, but he was not at its center. Nor should he be.

“Your Worship?” Nhudem asked when he failed to finish his sentence.

Tristan shook his head slightly and gazed at the armory building where Cassandra and Varric were. “You should take the rest of the day off,” he told him. “Spend some time with your daughter. Maighdin will guard me just fine by herself.”

He wasn’t sure whether that would even be enough to make a difference. But it was all he could do at that moment. He turned around and walked away before Nhudem could bring up an objection. 

With a sigh, and bracing himself for the worst, he pushed the door to the armory open. Even before fully stepping in, he could hear Cassandra’s and Varric’s voices tangled in a heated argument. The smiths that usually worked on the level floor had all gone out, terrified of the Seeker’s wrath. Tristan hopped up the steps to the upper level, where Cassandra had dragged Varric, and was greeted by the unparalleled sight of Varric running around a table while the Seeker chased him about, her face red with fury.

“You knew where Hawke was all along!” she growled at him. “You knew where he was, and said nothing!”

“You’re damned right I said nothing!” Varric ducked just as Cassandra swung at him with her sword arm, in a desperate attempt to catch him. He hopped several paces back, safely away from her reach, and looked at her defiantly, shaking his finger at her. “You kidnapped me. You interrogated me! What did you expect? That I would just give him up to you lunatics? The Templars wanted to kill him!”

Cassandra stopped running around, her eyes wide with disbelief. Her brow was gleaming with sweat and her chest was heaving, but she seemed to pay no attention to that as she glared at the dwarf. “You think I wanted to harm him? We needed him to lead the Inquisition! He was the Champion of Kirkwall. The mages respected him. If anyone could have talked to them and get them to stop that madness, it was him. And you kept him from us!”

“As if all your intentions are that pure,” Varric spat at her. “You just wanted to use him, with no regard for his own safety! That’s what your Chantry always does, isn’t it? Raise messiahs and then cut them down as soon as they stop serving their purpose?”

Cassandra’s mouth widened in a snarl. “You insolent, conniving little-“

“That’s enough,” Tristan interjected, taking a small step forward.

They both turned to him, surprise written on their features. Varric shot him a guarded look and said nothing before he turned away. Cassandra took a step towards him, her anger plain on her features. “Inquisitor, Varric lied to us. To all of us. He withheld important information at a time when we, no, the whole of Thedas needed it the most. He should be brought to justice. I will personally-“

“I said that’s enough,” Tristan repeated, more forcefully this time. He fixed Cassandra with a hard stare, until she grunted in annoyance and stalked away.

Both Varric and Cassandra had their backs to him, neither daring a glance at each other. Tristan looked from one to the other, and let out a soft sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head now was aching terribly, and he needed nothing more than a hard drink.

“Hawke could have been at the Conclave,” Cassandra said slowly, her back still turned. “If anyone could have saved most holy… If anyone could have led the Inquisition…”

Varric spun around to face her. “The Inquisition has a leader, in case you haven’t noticed! And a damned good one at that. Even if Hawke had been there, he couldn’t have saved Justinia. Nobody could have!”

Cassandra’s eyes were blazing with anger when she looked at him. “You don’t know that!”

“Cassandra,” Tristan said firmly, “Varric is not responsible for what happened at the Conclave.”

“Thank you!” Varric exclaimed, raising his hands in exasperation.

“That does not mean,” Tristan continued, giving Varric a hard look, “that I’ve forgotten that you hid your knowledge about Corypheus from us. You’d better not be hiding anything else, Varric.”

Varric prepared to retort, when he let out a defeated sigh. “You’re right, Blondie. Perhaps… I should have been more forthcoming. But Hawke is with us now. We’re on the same side. I want to beat that damned Elder One just as much as you do.”

“We all know whose side you’re on, Varric,” Cassandra hissed. “It will never be the Inquisition’s.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed in contempt, his lips tightening in a line. He turned away, stalking towards the stairs. “You know what I think?” he said, stopping short. “If Hawke had been at the Temple, he would have been dead, too. You people have done enough to him.”

Cassandra’s face twisted in a snarl, but she said nothing as she watched him walk away. She let out an exasperated huff as she brushed her palm over her face and plopped down on a chair.

Tristan glanced around the empty room. Maighdin had carefully stayed away from the entire affair, and was no doubt waiting for him downstairs. He couldn’t remember ever being alone with Cassandra before, save for that day where he had woken up inside Haven’s cold and damp jail, with her snarling and growling at him. She had seemed so terrifying to him then. It all felt like a lifetime ago. 

He forced himself to take a step towards her. She was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her shoulders heavy, as if she were carrying an impossible weight. 

“Are you… alright?” 

“Yes,” she said quickly, almost automatically. Then, her chest heaved with the depth of her sigh. “No. I… I don’t know.”

It was the first time he had seen her look so defeated. He searched for something to say, but could find nothing.

She rubbed the back of her head, threading her fingers through her short brown hair. “I never explained to Varric why we need Hawke. If I had told him… If I had made him understand…”

Tristan twisted his ring thoughtfully as he watched her. He had heard how desperately she and Leliana had been looking for someone to lead the Inquisition before he had appeared. He knew, better than anyone, that no one had wanted him there, at least at first. And he didn’t know if he could blame them. He was never the leader they had had in mind. He wasn’t strong, and he wasn’t inspiring, and he wasn’t gallant, and he could never hope to have the influence that Hawke seemed to have on people. He had been a mistake, a mishap, a snag in everyone’s plans from the very start.

Still, this conversation made him uneasy. He wasn’t an ideal leader, it was true. He had never wanted to be one either, yet he was. Because no one else was able to, or willing.

He looked at Cassandra, who had fallen silent again. 

“What then?” he asked her, somewhat sharply. “If you had explained all that to Varric, what would that have achieved?”

Cassandra opened her mouth, then closed it. “Honestly, I do not know,” she whispered finally. “Hawke would never have agreed to it anyway. It’s not… it’s not even about him.” She let out a heavy sigh. “I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter. I should… I should have tried harder. I do not deserve to be here.”

The pain in her voice made Tristan’s heart tighten, sympathy flooding his chest before he could stop it. She didn’t even raise her eyes to his when he took a seat next to her, close but still carefully away.

“You don’t truly believe that, do you?” 

“What if I do?” 

Tristan sighed. “I think you’re too hard on yourself. Varric is right. Nobody could have prevented Divine Justinia’s death. I’m sorry.”

Cassandra’s lips pursed defiantly, but then she shook her head in defeat. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. “So, I must accept... what? That the Maker _wanted_ this to happen? That he… That he...” 

Her voice broke, cutting her sentence short. Her chest heaved with the depth of her sigh, and her shoulders trembled. 

“I doubt the Maker had anything to do with it,” Tristan said quietly when Cassandra stayed silent. “There is no divine plan, no grand scheme that we’re all a part of. Sometimes you just have to accept that no matter what you do, things won’t change.”

“Is that what you believe? About yourself?” She raised her eyes to his. “You think you play no part in the grand scheme of things?”

Tristan gave her a small, pained smile. “I’m no chosen one. At least I don’t feel like one. In truth, I believe I’m just as lost and blind as anyone else. We’re all floundering in stormy seas, trying to keep our heads above water. Sometimes someone manages to hang on to a piece of driftwood for a short while, before that is swept away, too. Now, as to whether I’m the man drowning or the piece of driftwood everyone is clinging to, that’s a discussion for another day.”

Cassandra scoffed softly. “That’s a grim way of looking at things.”

“Yes, well,” Tristan sighed, stretching his arms over his head and cracking his neck, “people do say that about me, don’t they?”

“They do,” Cassandra replied. A small smile crossed her lips. “And other things, besides.”

“Oh? Like what, pray tell? I do hope it’s rumours of me sleeping with abominations and apostates again. I haven’t heard those in a while.”

Her brows were slightly furrowed when she looked at him, but then her frown melted away when she saw his teasing smile. She laughed, and Tristan joined her. A brief silence passed between them before she spoke again. 

“I want you to know,” she said, holding his gaze levelly. “I have no regrets.”

Tristan shot her a questioning look. “About what?”

“About you,” she replied, and she almost sounded gentle. “About everything. Maybe if we had found Hawke, the Maker woudn’t have sent you. But He did. You might not believe in a divine plan, but I do. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I believe you’re exactly what the world needed, when it needed it.”

Tristan blinked at her. Was that fondness he detected in her voice, or were his ears deceiving him?

She took a deep breath and continued. “I may not agree with every decision you make, but I do know this: few would be able to do what you have done. You were a prisoner, accused and reviled, yet you have emerged from every trial victorious. The Maker doesn’t rule you. You live or die by your own hand. That is worthy of admiration.”

Tristan swallowed thickly, wondering what to say. “I just do what needs to be done,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on his chair. “I don’t have all the answers. I’m not sure the ones I do have are even remotely right. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least try.”

Cassandra studied him carefully for a heartbeat. “I understand that now. The day you ascended the dais and announced your plans for the mages, I did not. I was angry. I was afraid that your decision would bring on a new war, that I had been mistaken in asking you to lead us. But I know now that it was simply my faith being tested. I am aware that you are not much of a believer, but I am. Andraste would not have sent you to us if you were not meant for it.”

Tristan shook his head. “I’ve made a lot of errors in my life, and will continue to do so. Perhaps you were right to mistrust me. I never wanted this. I believe you know that.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” she said with a small smile. “But never doubt for a second that you are the right person for this. What you did in the Emerald Graves for the refugees, the way you dealt with those Freemen… Even that rogue Templar I asked your help with. You could have just said no, yet you didn’t.” She paused for a moment before she spoke again. “When I first met you I was blind with rage and grief. If anyone had told me then that I would one day be pleased to have you lead me, I would have throttled them. But I am. Truly.” 

She fixed her dark brown eyes on his, her brows knit in determination, and Tristan returned her gaze levelly. He never expected Cassandra to say anything that would touch him so deeply. It was with a fair bit of surprise that he realised that… it felt good. 

His smile was genuine and affectionate when it widened his lips. “Thank you, Cassandra. This… this means a lot.”

She returned his smile with a wide one of her own. Tristan was not used to seeing her smile, but he was surprised to see that it didn’t look out of place on her. Her features were still stern, but they somehow managed to look soft, too.

He cleared his throat and stood up before she could say anything else. “Well,” he said, “if that doesn’t call for a drink, then I don’t know what does.”

Cassandra gaped at him. “You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all,” he said. “We’ve known each other for months now, and this is the first time we’ve spoken without wanting to jump at each other’s throats. I believe that’s worthy of a toast, don’t you?”

She blinked, then laughed and shook her head as she stood up to follow him. They were almost halfway down the long stairs, when Cassandra touched his elbow lightly. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something else, Inquisitor. I’ve noticed you smiling a lot more lately. Whatever it is that’s causing it, it’s good for you.”

Without quite thinking about it, Tristan beamed at her as he hopped down the steps.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The tavern was filled with people at that time of day. Dorian chewed listlessly on his breakfast, which seemed to be some sort of bland, tasteless stew once again - bits of meat that Dorian couldn’t even identify floated about its surface, along with mushy vegetables and a generous amount of grease. He was sure he would have gagged if he weren’t so hungry. He let out a soft sigh as he broke a small piece of bread and popped it in his mouth. He wondered with some amusement what sort of disgusted faces Trevelyan would pull, and how his nose would wrinkle had he been presented with a dish like that. The Inquisitor might have had the luxury of having sweet tarts and scones baked for him and sent to his quarters for his breakfast, but that same courtesy was not extended to the members of his inner circle, it seemed. 

His research notebook was by his side on the table, and he slowly flipped through its pages, careful not to get any grease stains on it. Since they had come back from the Emerald Graves, he had spent most of his time studying the notes he had taken from the Venatori ritual grounds. He had been poring endlessly over any book on bindings and blood rituals he could get his hands on in the library, which, admittedly, were precious few. Blood magic was taboo everywhere, even in Tevinter. Most books had probably been burned already, and those that were there were so outdated, Dorian dreaded even studying their archaic diagrams and equations for fear of forgetting what little he knew already. 

The piece of parchment that Dorian had found in one of the Venatori’s robes was somewhat more enlightening, but not by much. He was sure he had seen those glyphs before somewhere, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where. Now, if only he could have Maevaris send him a few books, straight from the Minrathous library…

“Hey, Vint,” Iron Bull said as he sat down across from him, the wooden planks underneath his chair quaking with his weight, “what’s that you reading over there?”

Bull’s mug was full, the ale leaving a thick white foam moustache on his upper lip as he brought it back down upon the table. Dorian let his notebook fall closed. “Would you understand it even if I told you?”

“Try me,” Bull said with a grin.

Dorian shot him a bored look. “Shall I? Do they teach advanced magic to everyone in the Qun? I thought your people just sewed mages’ mouths shut and called it a day.” 

The Qunari laughed and winked at him. With his one eye, it looked like he was just blinking. “Always the smart-mouth, I see. Nice. I like my men talky.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and stuffed his notebook in his coat pocket. “Don’t you have anyone else to throw those dreadful pick-up lines at? I’m quite occupied at the moment.”

“Well,” Bull said, looking him over carefully. “Someone’s in a bad mood today.”

Dorian scoffed in contempt, but in truth, Bull was right. His mood that day hadn’t been particularly good from the start. Not when he had woken up to a cold, empty bed, without Trevelyan by his side for the first time in days. Never in a thousand years would he have thought that he would miss being on the road and sleeping in his soddy tent and on his lumpy bedroll, but he did. Trevelyan’s chest pressed up against his back, his arm slung heavily over him, his warm breath that tickled the back of his neck, could make even the lousiest cot seem like a feather mattress. He had gotten used to the smell of his skin and his grumpy, sleepy protests as soon as he opened his eyes every morning, to his clever, reserved smile when they had their breakfast together, to the brief touches they managed to share when Varric and Cassandra weren’t looking. 

When they were travelling, there were no Inquisitorial duties to pull Trevelyan away before the day had even dawned, no meetings and judgements and whatever else it was he was doing that kept them apart. Yet now…

Dorian shook his head in annoyance, more so at himself than anything else. He was getting far too used to Trevelyan’s presence, he realised. If his life had taught him anything, anything at all, was that getting too attached to comfort was never good. 

He pushed his lukewarm, half eaten stew away and made as if to stand up, when Sera appeared out of nowhere and slung herself on the chair right next to him. She flung a pack of cards on the table along with a small bag of coins. 

“Alright, lads,” she said in her heavy Denerim accent, “which one of you’s is up for a quick game?”

Before Dorian could politely decline, the tavern door swung open and Trevelyan, along with Cassandra and his new guard walked in. Bright sunlight flooded the tavern through the open door, and every head in the room turned towards them. 

Dorian’s heart fluttered when their eyes met. Trevelyan’s lips widened in a smile before he could stop it, and his dark eyes shone with delight. For a brief moment, he had the oddest feeling that it was just them there, gazing at each other through the crowd, amidst the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oaths and crude jests, the people around them fading in the background.

Sera’s snort beside him made him tear his eyes away, albeit reluctantly. “What’s gotten into him?” she asked no one in particular, shaking her head. Then, her eyes fell on Dorian’s flushed cheeks, and she grinned. “Or, rather, _who’s_ gotten into him.”

Dorian blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you’ll be begging for _his_ pardon very soon, I wager,” she sniggered, nodding towards Trevelyan, who had stopped to speak to some new mercenaries that had just arrived in Skyhold. 

“Is there supposed to be some sort of meaning behind that nonsense you keep spouting? Because it just sounds like incoherent blabbering to me,” Dorian said reproachfully, but his voice was drowned out by Bull’s laughter.

“You and the Inquisitor, huh? Didn’t see that coming.”

“No, you didn’t, did ya? Told you our Inquisitor would be good at _stabbing_. I’ve seen him use those daggers,” Sera said, wiggling her eyebrows at Dorian. He rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation, and she smiled wickedly before extending her open palm to Bull, fingers curling, beckoning. “Pay up, big man.”

Bull let out a groan as he fished a small coin pouch out of his loose breeches and plopped it upon Sera’s outstretched hand. She let out a screeching laugh and shoved it into her pocket. Dorian glowered at them both. 

“You have been placing _bets_?”

“‘Course we have,” the elf said cheerfully, breaking a piece of bread and dunking it into Dorian’s stew. She chewed loudly and with her mouth open as she spoke. “The whole keep has seen you making puppy eyes at him whenever he passes by.”

Dorian felt all his blood surging to his cheeks. For all his time in the Imperium’s courts, he seemed to have forgotten how to keep his embarrassment from showing. “I most certainly am not!” he retorted, and instantly wanted to bite his own tongue. 

To his dismay, Sera laughed again and Bull joined her. It seemed everyone knew about what had happened in the Emerald Graves. Everyone knew about _them_. 

_Kaffas_. So it really was a “them” now, was it? 

His smile was tight and a touch forced when Trevelyan sauntered over to their table, Cassandra in tow and his guard standing just a few steps away. It wasn’t long before a serving girl brought two cups of warmed and buttered brandy, and a piece of apple cake they probably kept at the back, just for him.

“Cheers, Boss,” Bull said, raising his cup. “Good to have you back.”

Trevelyan’s cup touched against Bull’s with a light clink. “It’s good to be back. Those damned Orlesians almost got the best me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Bull replied with a chuckle. “I heard you dealt those Freemen there a fatal blow.”

“I dare say that we did,” Cassandra said, smiling humbly. “They won’t be pestering the refugees anymore, that’s certain. And Corypheus will have one less pawn on his board.”

“That’s crackin', innit?” Sera chimed in slapping her palm on the table. “A good kick, right in his dangly bits!”

They all laughed, and Trevelyan laughed too. A rich, bubbling sound, that made a wave of longing wash through Dorian. Trevelyan’s palm reached for the small of his back, almost as if by instinct, and Dorian half jolted out of his seat.

Under any other circumstances, he would have sworn it was by accident. That he had simply been startled by the unexpected touch. Yet, he knew well that it wasn’t. Being overly familiar with him while they were travelling, in the middle of nowhere, was all well and good. Even if someone did spot them, they would just see a pair of giddy lovers. Very few would have guessed that one of them was one of the most powerful men in Thedas, and the other his Tevinter paramour.

Paramour. The notion still felt odd and foreign to him. Yet, he had agreed to that, hadn’t he? 

He swallowed thickly as he brought his gaze up to Trevelyan’s face. It suddenly felt like every pair of eyes was on them. Trevelyan’s wide smile quivered on his lips only for a moment before it melted away, to be replaced by his usual placid, unreadable expression. He cleared his throat discreetly and edged back, putting a safe distance between them. 

Right at that moment, Bull -bless his soul- started telling a particularly lewd joke, and soon everyone joined in the merriment. The others didn’t seem to have noticed much, or were simply too good at pretending that they hadn’t seen Dorian’s blush and Trevelyan’s awkward frown. Something told him it was the latter.

“So,” Bull said after the laughter had quietened down, “the Chargers and I were thinking of throwing a small celebration later tonight, now that you’ve all returned. Will you be joining us, Boss?”

Trevelyan’s eyes flickered momentarily to Dorian, before looking away. He straightened his back, avoiding Bull’s gaze. “I, uh… We’ll see. I have some things I need to take care of first.”

Dorian almost yelped when Sera poked him in the ribs and wiggled her eyebrows at him. He scowled at her and swatted her hand away, hoping that Trevelyan hadn’t seen her, but when he turned to him, he seemed utterly oblivious to their commotion. One of Josephine’s agents had appeared, and Trevelyan was talking with him in hushed whispers. 

He turned to Dorian, who gave him a questioning look. Without a word, he drained his cup in a couple long gulps and set it carefully back on the table. Any sign of cheerfulness that might have lingered on his features only moments before was entirely gone now.

“I have to leave,” he announced, standing up. “Please, enjoy yourselves without me. You’ve all earned it.”

Trevelyan’s back was rigid as a plank as he walked away, his guard close behind him. Dorian hadn’t realised he had been staring after him when Sera whispered in his ear.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely at his face. “Puppy eyes.” She leaned back a bit, regarding him seriously, perhaps for the first time. “You’re innit deep, aren’t you?”

Dorian scoffed, but his annoyance was only half-hearted. He let out a soft sigh, turning again towards the tavern door, catching a glimpse of Trevelyan’s blonde hair through the interstice before it closed shut.

“I am,” he whispered under his breath. “Maker damn me, but I am.”

“I’ll say,” Sera sniggered, plopping her dirty feet on the table. “Up to yer breeches in shite creek deep, you are.”

“Now you’re just taking the piss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shoutout to my beloved friendo and master word wizard [HumblePeasant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumblePeasant/pseuds/HumblePeasant/) for blessing me with that awesome closing Sera line! 
> 
> Come join me [ on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	22. Skies Of Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up - there's been a small change in plans. I decided to change Hawke's Warden contact while writing this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

The large tower bell struck noon. The bright light streaming in through the wide windows of his quarters was half blinding. The stack of reports on Tristan’s desk was almost a foot high. 

The pitcher of mulled, watered-down wine next to it was thoroughly empty.

He leaned back on his plush armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let out a soft exhale. He had rolled out of bed well before day break once more, the grey rays of the early morning sun slithering up the eastern mountain range, a sword’s edge along the horizon. There was no end to the duties he had to take care off before leaving for Crestwood, so he had decided to make the best of his lack of sleep. _And now I’m paying for it_ , he thought with a scowl.

The headache that was creeping along his temples now was probably the least of his worries. Lady Josephine had very helpfully informed him the previous day that some distant relatives of his were creating a raucous in the Free Marches, claiming that they were “close friends with the Herald Inquisitor”. In fact, some of them had begun spreading outrageous rumours, saying that they had been present when he and Tilly had been born. A thrice-removed half-uncle of his even claimed to be his godfather. It wouldn’t surprise Tristan if he found out that someone claimed he was their long lost son, born after an illicit affair with his mother. 

Now, _that_ would have been amusing. Not to mention inventive. He didn’t want to know what his mother’s thoughts would be.

Josephine had presented him with a list of those that had started the entire thing; Tristan remembered them all, either by face or only by name. His mother had always insisted on both him and Tilly knowing every single person related to House Trevelyan, whether by blood, marriage or allegiance. Even those lesser families, that were only ever associated with them because a Trevelyan half a century before had lost the way back to his marriage bed and fell in some tavern maid’s bed instead, or that one distant cousin of his that had eloped with a silk merchant and sailed to Rivain, thus denouncing fortune and heritage. Tristan knew them all, right down to the number of sovereigns they liked to keep in their coin purses. 

_Keep an eye on your friends, two eyes on your enemies, and both hands at your family’s throat,_ his mother always said. A wise woman, Esme Trevelyan. The Free Marches were made up of independent city states instead of a single, unified nation, with the oldest and wealthiest families having more influence than the ruling Counts. When it came to political machinations, power struggles and plots, the Free Marchers could put Orlesians to shame. Thus, making sure that your own family members wouldn’t try to stab you in the back when you weren't looking was the first thing any Free Marcher worth their salt learnt. 

Instinctively, he reached for his silver wine goblet and cursed out loud when he found it empty. With a last, heaving sigh, he picked up his pen to sign off on the report before him, that would decide how the Trevelyans would be dealt with. During the council meeting, Leliana had suggested sending an assassin to shut them all up. Tristan had stared at her in disbelief, and her lips had curled in a cunning smile. 

“Not an actual assassin,” she had explained in her silvery voice. “Just the threat of one.”

Cullen had bristled at the Trevelyans’ blunder, declaring with a stern voice that the Inquisitor’s name is not one that should be thrown around lightly. “Denounce them,” he had insisted. “Those people and their outrageous rumours are soiling our reputation.”

Josephine’s approach had been much milder and level headed. “Promise them future favors,” she had suggested. “You don’t have to keep them, of course. But it will be enough to satisfy them for now, and stop them from making quite as much noise.”

It was with considerable reluctance that Tristan dragged his pen along the paper. As much as he had wanted to scare his slackwit relatives into silence with assassins or open denouncements, he knew them all too well to know that insults like these would only make matters worse. Free Marchers, and the Trevelyans in particular, were nothing if not loudmouths and insufferable gossips. So, false promises and assurances it was. 

_A good rider knows when to give his horse the whip, and when the apple._ His mother also said that. He wondered idly if he was becoming more and more like her by the day. If Tilly were there now, watching him, he was sure she would have laughed until she cried. “You’re starting to look like her, too,” she would say, nodding at the wrinkles that had recently started to form around his eyes, and laugh even more.

A dull, hollow ache thrummed in his chest. He missed hearing her laugh.

He shook his head and brushed the thoughts away, the memories dissipating like smoke in the wind. His fine golden pen glided on the thick parchment with a soft scratching sound as he signed his name and title at the end of the report. A quick glance at the wine pitcher reminded him that it was still empty, and he frowned.

“If you scowl at those reports any harder, I’m sure they’ll grow arms and write themselves. If they don’t set themselves on fire first.”

Dorian’s voice made Tristan half jump out of his seat. His pen flew out of his fingers, trailing a ragged line along his carefully written report, irreparably marring it. He grunted in annoyance as he crumbled it up in his fist and threw it in the hearth.

“Well. I believe that takes care of the latter.”

Dorian was standing before his desk, his lips curled in a soft, teasing smile. The long, flowy robe he was wearing was the softest shade of cream and blush pink, the fine leather belt keeping it in place decorated with golden buckles. One bare shoulder peeked through the carefully arranged layers of fabric, his bronze skin shining in the sunlight. His heady cologne reached his nostrils, and Tristan’s mouth went dry. Maker, he was a sight for sore eyes.

“Dorian,” he breathed. “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Weren’t you? That’s odd. I could have sworn that one of your guards - Maighdin, was it? - came to the library but an hour ago to inform me that you had asked for me. Perhaps I was mistaken. One does get used to seeing mirages from time to time in this place.”

Tristan bit his lip as a faint blush crept up his cheeks. Of course he had asked for Dorian when Maighdin had come in to bring him a fresh pack of letters a while before. With this and that, he had completely forgotten. Had he started losing his mind? 

He rubbed his eyes and huffed a laugh. “Forgive me, I… I didn't get much sleep last night. And this wine seems to have been a bit stronger than I anticipated.”

Dorian’s smile faltered just a hair before he gave him a warm, tender look. He sauntered around his desk, long fingers gliding along the edges of the polished wood, and Tristan pushed his chair back. The weight of Dorian’s body felt warm and comforting when he sat on his lap, and his lips tasted sweet as honey and sharp like toasted cardamom when they brushed over his own. He lost himself in that taste, that scent, that moment, the tension that had built up in his shoulders bleeding out of him. 

“Couldn’t sleep again?” Dorian asked softly, wrapping his arms around his neck. 

Tristan shook his head at Dorian’s concerned expression and reached up to cup his neck, running his thumb down the tendons of his throat. The tender skin felt like velvet under his fingertips; warm, smooth, pulsating with life. He leaned forward, burying his nose in that pulse point and inhaling deeply. “Not when my mind is filled with thoughts of my beloved.”

“Oh, no.” Dorian edged back, wrinkling his aquiline nose. “Not with the sappy poetry again, I beg of you.” 

“What sappy poetry?”

“Wasn’t this a line from one of those dreadful poems I keep finding in my pockets?”

Tristan smiled wryly. He had made it a habit to sneak small notes into Dorian’s pockets or under his pillow before he left for his meetings in the morning. It was customary in the Free Marches to leave a letter or a small trinket where one’s lover would find it. It was supposed to make the heart grow fonder in one’s absence, and Tristan hadn’t thought much of it at first. Dorian’s reactions, which usually verged between amused and horrified, had surprised him. Naturally, he had resolved to do it all the more.

“Is it so bad that I want to express my admiration for you in the way I know best?” 

Dorian crossed his arms before his chest and fixed his sterling grey eyes on his. The tiny golden flecks in them shimmered in the dancing light of the fire in the hearth. “Yes. Yes it is. Any more of that, and I’ll be running for the woods. Just you wait.”

A slow, throaty chuckle escaped Tristan’s lips as he pulled him flush against him and nuzzled his ear. “That’s a shame. There’s more where that came from. Care to hear it?”

"Do I have a choice?" he asked, rolling his eyes. 

“I’ll take that as a yes." Dorian tilted his head up as Tristan placed a soft kiss under his jaw, and Tristan couldn’t help a smile. Dorian could pretend he hated this all he liked, but Tristan could see right through him. " _I arise from dreams of thee, in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet has led me -who knows how? To thy chamber window, sweet! Let thy love in kisses rain, on my lips and eyelids pale-"_

“Maker.” Dorian sat up and gave him a suspicious look through his narrowed eyes. “Are you trying to make me hurl up my breakfast? Because it’s working.”

“What? It’s a lovely poem. I think it’s particularly fitting. Don’t you?” 

Dorian harrumphed and rolled his eyes again. 

"Wait," Tristan said, holding up his hand, "I have another one. I think you'll like that one better. _You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose; But all the sadness in my blood surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose-_ ”

"Oh, for the love of-" Dorian groaned and pressed his lips on Tristan's. Tristan chuckled at his desperate attempt to shut him up, but welcomed the feel of his mouth against his. 

They kissed for a long while, until Tristan could feel his blood stirring. Since coming back to Skyhold it felt like he was in a rush, and moments of idle enjoyment with Dorian were becoming increasingly harder to come by. Stolen moments, a kiss here, a touch there, a lingering glance across a crowded room; those were not enough to sate the fire that coursed through his veins whenever he saw him.

Yet now, for the first time in what felt like aeons, he had this all to himself. He let his fingers trail over the rich fabric of Dorian’s robes, feeling the taut muscles underneath. Dorian hummed against his lips, running his fingers through his hair. “You know,” he said, “you never struck me as a man of poetry."

Tristan gave him a cheeky grin. “You bring it out in me.”

Dorian chuckled softly, smoothing his palm over Tristan's chest. "Now, before I bring something else out in you," he whispered, "care to tell me why you called for me?" He slid his lips along his cheek, catching his earlobe between his teeth. "I hope it's something naughty."

Tristan’s hands tightened about Dorian’s waist. “It could be,” he replied. “I’ll be leaving for Crestwood tomorrow. You can join me, if you’d like.”

“You’ll be leaving so soon?” Dorian asked. He sat up, turning to face him. The slight movement of his body on his lap almost made a sharp hiss escape his lips, but he bit it back. Dorian’s tone was a touch apologetic when he spoke. “I have a lot of research to catch up on. I don’t think I’ll be able to finish it by then. I would say I’d love to come, but from what I’ve heard of the place that would be a lie.”

“You can’t come?” Tristan asked, his stomach falling past his knees. He forced a small smile on his lips, hoping his disappointment wasn’t too obvious. “And who will warm my bed at night?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“I doubt it would be as good as having you by my side.”

Dorian laughed and leaned against him. “So, who will you be taking with you? And I don't mean as a bedwarmer.”

Tristan thought for a moment. Now that Dorian wasn’t coming, he would have to decide on the composition of his party again.“Blackwall needs to come. He’s the only Grey Warden in our ranks. He might be able to give us better insight on… whatever it is that Hawke’s contact will be telling us. I’ll ask Solas to join us too. A mage is always needed. And Varric will want to travel with his friend.” In reality, Tristan had wanted Varric to be there more as an assurance that Hawke wouldn’t be driving them straight into trouble, rather than to give them time together. Perhaps the man didn’t care much for the Inquisitor, but he woudn’t willingly place his friend in danger. Tristan still wasn’t sure how much he could trust Varric, but he could say with some certainty that he didn’t intend to hurt him. At least, not fatally.

Dorian quirked a perfectly groomed brow and tilted his head to the side, the light catching on the side of his face and his throat. Blight, at times it felt like every single one of his movements was practiced to perfection to drive him mad. “You’ll be travelling with Hawke, then?” he asked. Tristan nodded, and Dorian let out a low humming noise. “Tell me,” he said, “how _is_ Hawke? I’ve heard all sorts of rumours about him.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s got quite the reputation.”

“Indeed,” Dorian said idly. A long, beringed finger traced Tristan’s jaw, sending a shiver down his spine. He seemed more absorbed in the movement of his finger than their conversation. “Apparently he is very handsome.”

“Who told you?” Tristan asked, brows furrowing in curiosity.

Dorian’s eyes flashed. He snatched his hand away and glared at him. “Oh, so he _is_ handsome!”

He edged back, arms crossed, the very air seeming to ripple around him. Tristan bit his lip. Damn him. Dorian had laid out a trap, and he had walked right into it. 

“That’s not what I said,” he said quickly, in a weak attempt to smooth things over. “I just-”

“Oh, please.” Dorian waved his words off. “Spare your breath. We both know you are a hopeless liar.”

“I am _not_ lying,” he said through tight lips, and was about to say more, when realisation dawned on him. “Wait. Are you... jealous?”

“ _Jealous_? Ha! The things you say,” Dorian scoffed. “As if I could ever be jealous of a backwards Free Marcher.”

“He’s only half a Marcher,” Tristan corrected, then frowned at the derision in his voice. “I also happen to be a “backwards” Free Marcher, you know.”

“My words exactly.”

Dorian fixed his gaze on him, hard and unyielding, his mouth set in a straight line. His irritation startled Tristan. He returned his glare with a confused look, but then let his lips curl in a smirk. Of course, Dorian was just joking. He must have been. He snaked an arm around his waist, pulling him close.“Alright, I’ll admit, Hawke isn’t hard on the eyes. But there isn’t a man in the whole of Thedas that could hold a candle to your beauty. Besides, he's an infuriating oaf if I ever met one.”

He had expected Dorian to laugh his usual teasing laugh, but the mage’s eyes were all fire and indignation. They simply stared at each other for a couple breaths, until Tristan couldn’t help but let out a small, nervous laugh. “Dorian, you can’t seriously believe I’m interested in Hawke.”

Dorian looked at him for a moment longer before shrugging indifferently and turning away, his gaze sweeping over his quarters as if appraising them, and finding them wanting. “Whether you do or don’t is of no consequence to me. I don’t mind if you find Hawke good looking, or any man. You’re the Inquisitor. You are free to do whatever you please.”

His words were an icy shower after a warm bath, harsh and unexpected. Tristan blinked and swallowed hard, hoping that he had misheard. “I am?” he breathed.

“Of course.” Dorian leaned back, further away from him. The rings on his fingers clicked when he started idly fixing his hair in place. “It’s not like we’re exclusive.”

Tristan felt like he had suddenly been punched in the gut. “We’re not?”

Dorian’s stern expression quivered for a moment, a blink of an eye. He opened his mouth, then closed it. When he did speak, he didn’t sound quite as confident as before. “I- well, we haven’t exactly spoken about-” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “Unless my memory betrays me, we never exchanged vows of eternal love and loyalty or anything of the sort. We’ve had our fun. Perfectly reasonable to keep it this way.”

“But…” Tristan started, then paused. This conversation had taken a turn that he had never anticipated. Ever since the Emerald Graves, he hadn’t doubted for a moment that what he and Dorian had was… something. What exactly, he could not say but he knew it, with a certainty that startled him at times, that this wasn’t like other flings he had had in the past, void of emotion or meaning. This, _this,_ was different. But did Dorian feel the same way?

He looked up into his eyes, and felt like his heart would jump out of his throat. “Dorian, I-”

Heavy bootsteps echoed along the narrow staircase, and Tristan cursed his rotten luck. Dorian stood up in a flowing movement, straightening his robes just as Maighdin appeared on the stair landing. Her face was stony when her eyes fell on Dorian fixing his clothes and on Tristan’s no doubt flushed cheeks. If she realised she had interrupted, she showed no sign of it.

“Your Worship,” she said, “I’ve brought you the requisitions for the hold renovations you requested.”

Tristan cleared his throat and nodded sharply. “Thank you. Is that all?”

“My lord,” Maighdin said and bowed. She turned around to leave, and Tristan almost let out a sigh of relief, when Dorian walked after her. 

“Dorian,” he said, but the other man barely stopped his course. 

“I’m afraid I have to return to my work,” Dorian called over his shoulder. “I do hope you enjoy the weather in Crestwood.”

  
  
  
  


Crestwood. Dark, dank, Maker-forsaken Crestwood. The rain pelted against his hood, soaking him to the bone, the spiralling wind sending the fat droplets flying in all directions. Thunder echoed in the distance, the flash of far away lightning brightening up the sky that hung over their heads gloomy and overcast. The clouds were so heavy, that it almost felt like if he stretched his hand he would touch them. The day so dark, that it seemed like night, even though it was most certainly not quite noon yet. 

Wrapped up in his thick cloak, Tristan shivered and scowled and muttered curses under his breath. 

His companions didn’t seem to be in any higher spirits. Varric looked miserable enough, swaying on his short, stubby gelding, while Solas peered straight ahead of him as they rode, exchanging but the most basic of words with the others. Blackwall and Hawke seemed to be getting along well, chatting away as if oblivious to the rain and the wind. 

Hawke’s tall, brown stallion was a magnificent beast, its large hooves splashing in the muddy puddles that had formed along the road. Anderfel Chargers were prized warhorses in the South, and Tristan had only seen them occasionally during the Grand Tourneys in the Free Marches. He wondered how Hawke had come across such an animal. From what he knew, he possessed neither the coin nor the connections to acquire it. Then again, a man like Hawke could slither his way into anyone’s good graces, the way Tristan saw it. Perhaps even his, if he tried hard enough.

Doubt and suspicion itched at the back of his mind. As if aware of his stare, Hawke shifted on his saddle, turning his head to give him a glance over his shoulder. His face was hidden by the shadow of his cowl, but Tristan could tell that he was smiling.

“Everything alright back there, Inquisitor? Haven’t heard you grumbling in a while.”

Tristan grunted his response and looked away. The man’s very presence grated at his nerves. He could feel Hawke’s gaze lingering on him for a long moment - careful, examining, just a touch amused - before he turned to Blackwall and resumed their conversation. Their voices were drowned out by the thunder and the wind and the patter of rain on the old, worn cobblestones, and even if Tristan were even slightly interested in hearing what they could be saying, he had no desire to strain his ears to eavesdrop. He gently kicked Almond forward, until he was riding next to Solas’ hart.

The mage gave him a short bow with his head in greeting, then let his gaze drift towards their right. The day’s dull light reflected on Crestwood lake’s troubled waters, ever shifting and turning with the wind. The rift that lay in its middle was the only thing disturbing that endless expanse of grey. It was bright and sputtering and ugly as an eyesore, and one of the largest rifts Tristan had seen in a while. It gave him an odd sense of foreboding, and he frowned at it, but Solas was simply staring at it impassively, the side of his face painted a sickly green.

“I’ve never seen a rift in a more inconvenient location,” Tristan said, more to himself than to Solas. “Even if I’d wanted to get close to it, it’s impossible to reach.”

The elf turned smoothly, giving him a careful look. “There must be a way. We just need to find it.” His voice was low when he spoke again. “Rifts like these imperil both this world and the Fade. Even one rift left as is, is one rift too many.”

Tristan was about to ask whether he had any bright ideas about how to reach it, when the rift crackled, sputtering green light. A stab of pain shot up his left hand, a ripple of electricity that travelled up his veins and numbed his senses. He bit his lip to muffle out his pained groan, clutching his hand up to his chest. 

Solas’ eyes widened; alarm and concern mingled with curiosity flickering in their dark grey depths. “What’s the matter, Inquisitor? Is the mark troubling you?”

Tristan rubbed his palm, wincing. It was glowing faintly from within the folds of his cloak, but the pain was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. He shook his head and waved Solas’ concern away. “I’m alright. I think. It just pinched a little.” He glanced at the rift in the lake, that was relatively peaceful now. “I can’t remember it doing something like that before.”

Solas’ brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. “The Veil is thin here.”

“It certainly feels like it,” Tristan grumbled. Solas opened his mouth to say something more, but shouts and the clang of swords in the distance stopped him. They exchanged a wary look before urging their steeds forward.

After a moment of confusion, the others followed them. The clop of their horses echoed against the tall rocks that edged the narrow paved road. A turn later, and they were all pulling on their reins, dirt and mud flying as hooves dug on the wet ground. Two armed men were standing in the middle of the road, swords brandished and bewilderment evident in their expressions when they gazed at the mounted party before them. Three mangled, wretched corpses lay at their feet.

Almond whickered nervously, her nostrils flaring and her ears standing on end as the acrid smell of darkspawn blood reached them. Solas’ hart took an uneasy step backwards, while Blackwall’s and Varric’s mounts tossed their heads back, the whites of their eyes showing. Hawke’s stallion didn’t move a muscle.

Tristan clicked his tongue softly, reaching down to pat Almond’s neck. Most animals, and indeed most people, were unsettled by darkspawn, their very presence defying any logic or explanation. Dead that weren’t quite dead, and that were only driven by a mindless urge to kill. Void take him, they made him uneasy as well.

One of the armed men - Grey Wardens, Tristan realised when he took a good look at the griffon symbol etched on their shining breastplates - wiped his sword on the cloak of one of the fallen darkspawn and placed it back in its scabbard. “Greetings, travellers,” he said, his voice muffled by his helmet. 

“Greetings,” Tristan replied, sitting tall on his saddle. “What’s going on here?”

The Warden regarded him curiously. “Who’s asking?”

Tristan glanced momentarily at Hawke, whose face remained impassive and half hidden by the shadow of his hood. The others remained silent, waiting for Tristan’s response. In the brief second of silence that passed, his mind raced - Hawke had mentioned that his contact was hiding in a smuggler’s den. That he had reached out to him because he was concerned about corruption in the ranks. And now there were two Grey Wardens before them, their armours shiny and well kempt, as if they had just arrived. Crestwood did not hold any Grey Warden outposts that Tristan knew - Blight, they were in the back-end of Ferelden, no one had any reason to ride through there- so, what were the Wardens doing? A couple darkspawn hordes could hardly be a reason. It was a well known fact that many places in Thedas were teaming with undead, yet the Wardens hadn’t even bothered to send a party to clear them out, or two.

There could only be one reason, the way Tristan saw it.

“Willem of House Henley, of Starkhaven,” he said quickly in his best imitation of the heavy Starkhaven accent, hoping he hadn’t stayed silent long enough to arouse the Warden’s suspicions. The lie came easily to him, without much thought. If the Wardens here were after Hawke’s friend, announcing his real name and the Inquisition’s presence would only attract unwanted attention, and that was a risk he was not willing to take. He gestured towards his companions. “These are my household guards.”

The man blinked at him. His eyes swept slowly over Hawke and Blackwall, pausing for a moment on Varric, and stopping dead in their tracks at Solas and his hart. “You’re a long way from home, my lord,” he told Tristan slowly when his gaze returned to him.

“Indeed,” Tristan said. “We’re on our way back, as it happens. Care to point us towards the nearest port?”

“If it’s the West Hill port you’re headed for, you’ve just earned yourself an extra day of travel. Should have gone North after Kinloch. Roads are better that way.”

Tristan pretended to be surprised, then exasperated. He nodded his sour gratitude at the man, then glanced at the darkspawn, wrinkling his nose. “What about them? Will we be seeing a lot of them?”

“Quite a few, I’m afraid. I would avoid the main road if I were you. I doubt your guards here can defend you against darkspawn,” the Warden said, shooting a glance of veiled contempt towards Solas before checking himself. 

Hawke snorted. Tristan cleared his throat to drown out the sound, glaring at him. “Yes, I doubt that as well. Not that many darkspawn in Starkhaven, as you can imagine. Good thing you’re here, though. It’s a relief to see your Order taking care of business as usual. I hope you’ll stay long enough to clear this place out.”

The Warden shook his head. “Our orders forbid it. Crestwood was only a detour. We’ll be leaving soon.”

“A detour?” Tristan said with genuine surprise. “I thought Wardens went wherever the undead are. Isn’t that your job?”

The man bristled at that. “We’re here on important Grey Warden business. None of your concern.”

Tristan let out what he hoped sounded like a snooty lordling's amused chuckle. “What business could be more important for a Grey Warden than killing darkspawn?”

The other Warden, that had stayed silent all the while, took a step forward. “A rogue Grey Warden is wanted for questioning. Warden Commander Clarel herself has ordered his capture! _That_ is important business,” he spat, his youthful voice filled with indignation.

The older Warden gave him a stern look, and the youth fell back. He turned his gaze to Tristan, cold and dripping with disdain. “Best be on your way now. This is no place for a _lord_.” 

Tristan gave the man a minute bow with his head, and urged Almond forward. His companions followed suit, steering their horses carefully clear of the darkspawn corpses. As soon as they were safely out of view of the Wardens, Hawke’s mount caught up to his.

“That was clever, giving them a false name,” Hawke said, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Although your Starkhaven accent needs a little bit of work.”

Annoyance flared hot in Tristan’s chest when he turned to glare at him. “Next time, I would appreciate it if you warned me in advance that your contacts are _wanted criminals_ ,” he hissed.

Hawke blinked at him, startled for only a moment. “He’s not a criminal,” he said earnestly. “I told you before that I had reasons to believe there was corruption in the Grey Warden ranks. The corruption may have spread more than I thought. If they’re after him, they could be after others who have dared voice opposition as well.”

 _Or_ , Tristan thought, _your friend is a madman, or a killer, or a traitor, and the Grey Wardens are looking for him to bring him to justice._ He scowled as he pressed on, following the small mountain path that veered off the main road. Hawke let his horse fall back, riding beside Varric instead. 

No one spoke much until the mountain path trailed upwards, leading them to the hidden entrance of the smuggler’s cave. It really was the perfect hideout spot; narrow, low, the steep slope before it making it barely noticeable from the main road. Tristan swung one leg over his saddle and slid off his horse, tying her reins to a thick root that was growing from the rock. He shifted impatiently on his feet until the others dismounted, thumping the hilt of his daggers. Whoever was in that cave, and whatever he had to say, he wanted nothing more than to be done with it.

Hawke strode confidently forward, pausing at the entrance of the cave to gesture for Tristan to walk ahead. “After you, my lord,” he said in a ridiculous Starkhaven accent, the smile that was plastered on his face wide and mocking.

Varric chuckled, and Blackwall huffed in amusement, but they both cleared their throats and looked away when Tristan stomped ahead, shooting Hawke his iciest frown before passing him by. He regretted it very soon after - the long, narrow passage of the cave was dark and incredibly dank, and he could barely see past his nose, save for the feeble moonlight reflecting off the wet stalagmites. 

The passage widened into a room, faintly lit by torches. Tristan gazed around, but other than an old, moth eaten desk, some broken crates and an empty barrel, there was nothing there.

He turned around to glare at Hawke. “I swear to the Maker, Hawke, if this is a trap-”

The sound of a sword sliding out of its scabbard behind him made his blood freeze. He immediately reached for his daggers, dodging out of the way of the blade as he pulled them free. 

“It’s alright!” he heard Hawke saying. “It’s just us. I have brought the Inquisitor.”

The man whose sword tip was aiming for his throat was in his middle years, his raven black hair streaked with grey. He had a hard face and hard eyes; cold, aloof, vigilant. His icy blue gaze slid slowly from Hawke to Tristan before he took a step back, sheathing his blade in one seamless, fluid motion. 

“Warden Loghain Mac Tir,” he said in a deep, raspy voice. “I believe we have a common cause, Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I fully intended to go with Stroud, but then I remembered that Loghain is an option for Hawke's Warden contact. And then I couldn't not have Loghain as Hawke's Warden contact. Damn. I love this man. I hope you love him too. :3
> 
> The first poem that Tristan recited was _The Indian Serenade_ by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The second is _The Eyes of Beauty_ by Charles Baudelaire. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	23. Traitors and Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find this chapter ends a little abruptly, you're probably right. It's the first part of a chapter that (unsurprisingly) got too long. Next chapter will be up soon!
> 
> Thank you for bearing with me, friends <3

“You’re Loghain Mac Tir?” Tristan breathed, blinking in disbelief. “ _The_ Loghain Mac Tir?”

The man before him stood tall and proud in his Grey Warden uniform. The uniform itself had seen better days, worn at the cuffs and its metal buckles dull with time and wear, but one wouldn’t know it by the way the Warden held himself. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, his unflinching gaze fixed on Tristan. He had an imposing presence, seeming to take much more space in the room than a man of his size should, and the look of someone that expected his commands to be obeyed, no matter who he was talking to. And they probably would.

Still. Tristan could not possibly be talking to _the_ Loghain Mac Tir.

“The Traitor Teyrn?” the man said. His brows drew down in a frown, the lines of his forehead deepening. “The very same. I assume you’ve heard all the names. I’ve been a Warden for ten years, yet I’ll never be considered anything else.”

So. It really was him. The man that had risked losing Ferelden and the rest of Thedas to the darkspawn, that had doomed King Cailan and the vast majority of the Grey Wardens to death at the battle of Ostagar. The man that had plotted and schemed to keep himself in power, even when most Banns were against him. The man who had been forced to join an Order he had betrayed, and for all intents and purposes was now about to betray again. That was the man that Hawke had brought him to meet, that would give him answers about the state of the world.

Tristan frowned. They would have a _lot_ to say after this.

“Hawke here tells me that you know why the Grey Wardens have disappeared,” he said, crossing his arms before his chest. “You believe that Corypheus might have something to do with it.”

“That is correct,” Loghain replied, his voice calm and steady. “It is my belief that Corypheus is the key. After Hawke killed him, Weisshaupt was content to forget the entire affair. But if I’ve learnt anything from all those years of being a Warden, it’s that blighted creatures can survive even seemingly mortal wounds. Why not Corypheus?” He turned away, taking a step towards the old desk, where maps and scrolls were laid out. “I began to investigate. I found evidence, but no proof. Soon after, all the Wardens started hearing the Calling.”

“The Calling?” Tristan asked. He didn’t know much about the Grey Wardens, at least not as much as he would like. The Order had a way of keeping their affairs firmly behind the doors of their fortresses, and with the Blight having ended all those years before they had slowly but steadily faded into a state of semi-obscurity. Yet, that “Calling” definitely sounded ominous to him.

He glanced at Hawke, whose face had taken on a sickly pallor.

“So, the Wardens think their time has come,” he said slowly. “That they are being called into the Deep Roads, to make their final stand against the Blight before the Taint takes them. They think they’re… dying.” His fists tightened, and the muscles in his jaw clenched. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t believe it concerned you.” Loghain looked at Hawke over his shoulder, and Tristan thought he saw something akin to compassion flashing in those icy blue eyes, pale like the morning sky on a frosty winter’s day. Hawke’s gaze remained cold. Cold and angry. 

A ball of apprehension settled in Tristan’s stomach. From the little he had seen of Hawke, he seemed like a man that was phased by very little. What was it about the Calling that could make him so angry?

Loghain let out a soft sigh as he turned around to face them. “The Calling is a portent, like crows circling the battlefield before the fighting. First, come the dreams. Then the whispers, just at the edge of hearing. That is when the Warden goes to the Deep Roads, to die with honor. But few people, even amongst the Wardens, know that the Calling is simply a sign of the Taint taking over. A Warden that hears the Calling can’t think clearly. All of the Grey Wardens hearing the Calling at once… that’s madness.”

“So, that’s why they’re hiding. They’re all in a panic,” Varric said. He was a little way away, leaning against the wall of the cave, his features obscured by the dancing shadows of the torch above him.

Loghain nodded. “They are.”

“Corypheus is imitating the Calling to scare them. And the Wardens are playing right into his hand.” Tristan shook his head, his frown deepening. “We need the Warden’s help, now more than ever. This is the worst possible time for them to be falling for a trick like that.” 

“This is no mere trick, Inquisitor,” Loghain said. “I can hear too, at the back of my mind. Sometimes I catch myself humming it under my breath. I know it’s false, but that doesn’t make it any less real. The Wardens believe it is real, and that is all that matters.”

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his blood pounding at his temples. This was bad. Oh, this was _very_ bad.

“Can you hear it, too, Blackwall?” he asked, turning to the only other Warden in his party.

Blackwall drew himself up, his eyes darting to Loghain and then to him. “I do not fear the Calling. Worrying about it only gives it power.”

Hawke’s gaze snapped momentarily to him, before returning to Loghain. His brows were drawn in a thoughtful frown, his lips pinched in a tight line. 

Loghain gave Blackwall a look that coming from any other man would have looked like a glare, but the Warden just seemed... perplexed. He was watching them all carefully. At times, it felt as though not a single movement went unnoticed by his pale blue eyes. It probably didn’t. 

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath, hoping to ease the pressure of the headache that had started taking hold, an iron cinch around his skull. What Loghain was saying was outrageous. If Corypheus did indeed have that much control over the Wardens, they were all probably doomed. 

That was… If what Loghain said was true. And Tristan still had little proof of that.

He fixed him with a hard look. Time for more questions, it seemed. 

“We met some Grey Wardens just before coming here,” he told Loghain. “They wanted to take you back to Weisshaupt for questioning. Apparently, the Warden-Commander of the Grey Wardens herself has ordered your capture. Why?”

Loghain returned his inquisitive gaze with a calm and composed one of his own. “Warden-Commander Clarel ordered an urgent meeting with all the Warden Commanders after it became known that all Wardens hear the Calling. She insisted, and most Wardens agreed with her, that a new Blight, perhaps the more devastating to date, is close at hand. She proposed a ritual involving blood magic. A desperate measure to prevent further blights. I protested the plan, called it madness. They tried to arrest me.”

Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but Solas was faster. He took a step forward, straightening up to his full height as he came to stand next to Tristan. 

“What sort of ritual is this?” he asked Loghain. “What are the Wardens planning to do?” His voice was… not panicked. Not exactly. But there was the sort of urgency that was now gripping Tristan’s breath, too. 

Loghain stared at Solas in confusion for a quick moment, then shook his head. “I do not know. Clarel wouldn’t say how she planned to do it, or where she had gotten the idea for it. Even had she said, I am no mage. Any details would be lost on me. But I know that tampering with blood magic is never a good idea. I wasn't the only one to oppose it, but my voice rings the loudest, I suppose.”

Sola’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing more. 

“Where are they planning to do this ritual?” Hawke asked. Straight to the heart of the issue. 

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Loghain said. “I still have some informants in the Wardens, but they’re getting harder and harder to track down. I need time.”

“Time that, unfortunately, we do not have,” Solas replied quietly, and Loghain shot him a sharp look, his lips tightening visibly. 

“Solas is right,” Tristan agreed. “If Corypheus is using them, things are infinitely more dire than originally thought. The Wardens cannot fall into Corypheus’ hands. If another Blight breaks out, there will be no one to stop it.”

"I'll do what I can," the grizzled Warden said, his expression stony and unyielding. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, Inquisitor, I have work to do. There's too much at stake to waste time with idle talk. "

  
Tristan was seething by the time they left the dark cave. Almond was chewing on a patch of sad and rain-soaked grass when he approached her. For a moment, he wished he was as untroubled as she was.

“We should water the horses,” he said, running a palm over her neck. “We have been riding them non-stop for hours.”

Blackwall nodded, and untied his own bay gelding’s reins. “I saw a small a creak on our way here. There were no darkspawn that I could see, but we should be wary.”

The brook that Blackwall led them to was narrow and bubbling, running swiftly over flat and slimy rocks. It was at the bottom of a small ravine, and finding a way around the large stones that seemed to sprout from every bit of ground was tricky, but in the end Blackwall was able to spot a path that would lead the horses there safely. By that time, the light drizzle had turned into proper rainfall, pattering on the hood of Tristan’s coat, running in small rivulets down his leather breeches, slithering into his boots and soaking his socks. If there was a place more miserable than this, Tristan didn’t know of it.

Cursing, he took out his flask from his coat pocket. Thankfully, he had remembered to bring it with him this time. The brandy -Antivan, earthy and aromatic- did work somewhat in warming him up. It didn’t do much to calm him down, though. 

Loghain’s information had unsettled him to his very core. If everything he had said was true, then Corypheus had full control of one of the biggest military orders in Thedas, and the only one that could stand against a Blight. And if the Wardens were indeed preparing a blood ritual…

That had given Tristan pause. Why did it suddenly seem like everybody and their aunts were doing a blood ritual of some sort? 

His fingers tightened around the mouth of his flask until his knuckles went white. Everything was so complicated and convoluted, that no matter how hard he tried to pick the threads apart, they kept getting tangled. If Dorian were there, he might have been able to talk through all this mess with him. He always seemed to have some brilliant insight to offer that Tristan hadn’t even thought of, no matter the subject at hand. And he always did have a way of asking all the right questions. Had he been there during the meeting with Loghain, he would have pressed the old Warden in a way none of the others could, gleaned every bit of information he held.

That was, if Loghain could be trusted. Something that was still very much in doubt.

The smell of burning smoking leaf reached him, and he glanced beside him at its source. Hawke had come to stand next to him, the soft orange glow of his pipe illuminating his face from within the darkness of his cowl. It unnerved Tristan more than he cared to admit that he never heard him walking up to him. 

Hawke exhaled a thick, silvery cloud of smoke, then extended the pipe to him. “Want some?”

Tristan wrinkled his nose and looked away. “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Hawke replied with a shrug.

He might have been mistaken, but Tristan thought the rain was falling harder now, making him shiver and retreat further into his cloak. Or perhaps it was Hawke’s presence that was making him uneasy. There was something about him, something nagging at him, like an itch at the back of his brain that he couldn’t scratch. He took another sip of brandy to steel himself. 

“How do you know Loghain?”

His question was abrupt, and his tone a tad sharper than he had intended. He felt Hawke stiffen beside him. 

“I was looking for a friend when I learnt about the Grey Warden’s disappearance,” Hawke said simply. He brought his pipe up to his lips. Inhaled. Exhaled. The smoke blew past his lips, dispersing in the rain and wind around them. “I contacted Weisshaupt under an assumed name. Loghain happened to be in charge, and asked me to meet him. He already had his doubts about the Order at that time, so when he learnt who I was and what I had done, he offered to help.”

“I… see.” Tristan took another sip of brandy. Hawke’s answer had given rise to more questions, none of which would help enlighten him in the slightest. There was something missing still. Something in Hawke’s tone that he couldn’t put his finger on.

“Does my answer not satisfy you?”

Tristan bristled at his curt tone. He opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking. 

“I suppose it comes as a surprise that you would trust someone like him for information,” he said carefully after a short while.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

His gaze met Hawke’s in an unabashed stare. “Was that a serious question?”

“I’m not sure. Was yours?”

Tristan frowned with the challenge in the other man’s voice. He took a deep breath, preparing to go straight for the offensive.“Loghain is known across Thedas as a traitor. He has betrayed country and king, and not just once. Now he’s willing to betray the plans of his own Order, an Order he has betrayed the past. You must be able to see my reservations,” he spat, making sure his words packed as much derision as he could fit into them. He turned to gaze at Almond, calmly drinking water, oblivious to the tension that had settled thick around them. When he threaded his fingers through her thick mane he realised they were trembling slightly, and he quickly shoved his hand back within the folds of his cloak. “You’ll be hard-pressed to find a person in the whole of Thedas that he hasn’t crossed.”

Hawke huffed a laugh. “The same could be said of me. Or you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Every time I hear news of you, you’ve made a new enemy. After your support of the mages, half the Templars and the Chantry would want nothing more than your Inquisition declared a heretical organisation and your head on a pike. Does that mean you can’t be trusted?”

“That’s hardly one and the same,” Tristan retorted, his irritation flaring hot and bright. “I had reasons for doing what I did. I did it to make people’s lives better, the only way I could at the time.”

“Anyone you ask will give you the same answer. I did what I did to make people’s lives better, or so I thought. And so did Loghain, I’m sure.”

Tristan scowled at him. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

Hawke turned around to face him, his expression very serious all of a sudden. “You forget that I’m a Fereldan first, Inquisitor, and then a Marcher. I know very well what he has done, and what his actions have cost the world. Still, he’s the only one that can help us at this point. What he has done in the past is irrelevant, compared to what he is willing to offer now. Sometimes, you have to suspend your disbelief in the face of utter chaos. Especially when you have no other options. Which I’m sure you don’t.”

Tristan gaped at him, his pulse beating madly against his throat. He tore his gaze away when he realised he had been staring, clicking his tongue in disgust. Almond whickered softly when he pulled her away from the creek and placed his foot on the stirrup. 

“Let’s go,” he called to the others, deliberately steering his horse around Hawke, as if he were nothing but a tree trunk in his way. “It’s getting dark.”

  
  


No one spoke a word as they got on their horses. A deep, pensive silence had fallen over them all, the clop of their horses' hooves one the stony ground and the pattering of the rain the only sounds for a long while. They passed through empty villages and abandoned huts, their thatched roofs rotting on sopping wet beams. 

The Grey Wardens they had met were not lying about the darkspawn either. Their eerie, guttural sounds and the hollow clanking of their decrepit armours echoed in the grey darkness that spread around them as the day rolled on. They took care not to venture too close to any of the abandoned settlements, staying clear off the main road. The darkspawn, oddly, left them alone. Soon, Blackwall started talking with Varric, and Hawke joined in their conversation, and it almost - _almost_ \- felt like things were back to normal. Only they weren't.

As he swayed rhythmically on his saddle, Tristan's head felt as if it were about to burst.

He let out a soft sigh and rubbed his eyes with his free hand, wishing for a miracle that would somehow end his troubles. The lightning strike that fell just a few feet away, making a sad, leafless tree explode, would have been ideal. Alas, his luck didn’t extend so far.

“We should look for the nearest Inquisition camp,” Varric said, his voice muffled from within his hood. “I’m not staying in this rain for much longer.”

“Ah, how I’ve missed this,” Hawke said with a wide smile. His earlier somberness seemed to have completely disappeared, as though he and Tristan had never exchanged a word.“Still haven’t found your love for the outdoors, old friend?”

Varric huffed a laugh, that was broken up by a shiver. “Don’t think I ever will, Poppy.”

“Poppy?” Blackwall asked. “Where did that come from?”

Varric opened his mouth to speak, when Hawke interjected. "Something that happened many, many years ago. I'm sure Varric will spare us all from hearing it.”

“No way I'm leaving our friends in the dark, Hawke!” Varric chuckled. “It's Captain Poppy, to be exact. Do you want to tell them the story, or shall I?"

Hawke rolled his eyes. “I had hoped we would avoid that, but some things are just too much to hope for, aren’t they?”

“You’re damned right they are!” Varric said cheerfully. “I’ll say it if you don’t want to. I’m a far better narrator anyway.” The dwarf straightened up on his saddle and cleared his throat, taking on a serious expression. “It was a dark and cloudless night in Lothering. Our hero - Hawke- was returning from a night at his favourite pub, The Frisky Minstrel-”

“The Tipsy Minstrel, Varric,” Hawke corrected. “She was tipsy, not frisky.”

“Let the writer embellish his stories in the way he sees fit, will you?” Varric protested. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. It was a dark and cloudless night in the dead of winter when Hawke was approached by a nefarious stranger. “Greetings, young master,” the man said. “I am looking for someone to undertake an important quest.””

“What was the quest?” Blackwall asked. He seemed enthralled in Varric’s story.

“I was just getting there,” Varric said, shooting him a pointed look. He cleared his throat again, making his voice deep and raspy. “”Smuggle five sacks of poppy seeds on a small boat, under cover of darkness, from Lothering to a secret port in Redcliffe,” the stranger said. “That is all you need to do.” Hawke, as you can imagine, was intrigued. The quest was simple. The reward was handsome.”

Blackwall let out a short huff. “I bet you five sovereigns there were way more than ten sacks on that boat.”

“Hold on to your gold, Warden,” Hawke said somewhat gruffly, but the amused smirk on his lips hadn’t faded.

Varric made a dramatic pause, eyeing his audience. Even Solas had shifted slightly on his saddle to listen. Pleased, he continued. “Without hesitation, Hawke took up the man’s offer. “Aye, nefarious stranger,” said he. “I’ll do as you ask. I may be young, but I sure am brave.” Thus, our brave, young hero, still wet behind the ears and hanging from his mother’s skirts-”

“Alright, I think that’s quite enough,” Hawke stopped him, laughing. “You’re still as terrible a storyteller as you’ve always been, Varric.”

Varric’s eyes widened dramatically, and he looked at Hawke with an expression of wild affront. “Well, then why don’t you go on more interesting adventures so I don’t have to embellish as much?”

Tristan didn’t realise he had been listening attentively to their conversation, until Hawke turned to look at him. “Don’t listen to him, Inquisitor,” he said affably, his smile dripping with barely concealed mockery. “Varric has a way of coming up with the most extravagant tales. You should hear what he says about you when you’re not around.” 

Tristan rolled his eyes and looked ahead of him, scowling. How he wanted to wipe that smug grin off Hawke’s face. With his fist, preferably.

“Now, now, I’ve never talked about Blondie behind his back! Well. Perhaps only once or twice. And when my audience asked for it. Quite insistently, I may add,” Varric replied with a laugh. “Even Chuckles here has been known to enjoy my stories from time to time.” His wide smile didn’t falter an inch when Solas snorted derisively.

“It’s fascinating how whatever interest I lack in your stories, Varric, you’ll invent for me,” the elf retorted.

Blackwall let out a loud guffaw. “He’s got you there.”

The sudden din of battle in the distance cut everyone’s laughter short. Tristan pulled on Almond’s reins and glanced around him, trying to locate the source of the sound. A cloud of smoke rose towards the darkened sky, and it did not look like the smoke of a campfire. 

“That must be coming from Crestwood village,” Hawke said, drawing his steed next to Tristan’s. “It looks like they’re under attack.”

“From whom?” Tristan asked, and felt foolish for asking.

Hawke gave him a wry, arrogant smile and kicked his stallion forward, its large hooves splashing in the mud as it picked up its pace. “We won’t know until we get there, will we now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh, how Hawke enjoys testing Tristan's patience. Be careful, Captain Poppy. He bites. ;)
> 
> By the way, I fully subscribe to the idea that opium is used in Thedas, hence the need for poppy seeds. You can try to convince me that there aren't opium dens or similar establishments in places like Val Royeaux and Minrathous, but you would probably fail.
> 
> Also, my dear, beloved friend [Tessa1972](https://tessa1972.tumblr.com/) commissioned [this](https://le-mooon.tumblr.com/post/190139202894/commission-for-dear-johaeryslavellan) absolutely gorgeous tarot card of Tristan and Dorian and I'm in LOVE with it!! 
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come and screech at me, if it pleases you.
> 
> As always, thank so much for reading! xoxo


	24. Mud and Crushed Mulberries

Tristan kicked Almond forward, careful to steer her around any mud puddles and rocks as they all rode on. The ground was slippery, and the old cobblestones looked worn to a shine, perfect for slipping on the best of days, let alone now that everything seemed to be covered in the same slime. 

He drew on the reins well before they reached the sloped entrance of Crestwood village. It was a small and humble settlement. It may have once seen days of relative glory, but its high wooden walls were now rotting and crumbling in places, burning and smoking in others. They certainly didn’t seem to be able to keep out the horde of darkspawn that had gathered outside the gates for too long.

Panicked screams rose from inside the walls, as the villagers tried - and failed - to drive the undead away. Their arrows were doing a measly job at killing them, clanging against their tattered armours and sliding off their rust covered helmets. Some were desperately trying to douse the flames on the wooden walls, while others pelted the darkspawn with rocks, that seemed to do nothing to deter them. A man with a crossbow peeked slowly over the wooden beams to fire a shot, and quickly ducked back down when a darkspawn brandished its sword at him. 

Tristan sighed. His hopes for a warm dinner and a good night’s sleep were getting farther away from him by the minute. 

The easiest way to get rid of the undead would have been to charge straight ahead and cut them down from atop their horses. But other than Hawke’s stallion, none of the other steeds were meant for battle. Reluctantly, he slid off his saddle, pulling out his daggers from their scabbards.

“Come,” he told his companions who were scrambling off their mounts, weapons at the ready. “There's some butchering to do.”

Several pairs of milky, lifeless eyes turned towards them, rotting, purple mouths opening in guttural screams. It was with mild disgust and an eerie sort of satisfaction that Tristan plunged his blades into the neck of the first creature that crossed his way. He hacked and slashed mindlessly, not caring whether he hit vital arteries and pulse points to ensure a quick death. Notions like these had been ingrained in him from the very start; his childhood fencing tutor had been a renowned swordsman in the Free Marches, having won the Grand Tourney in 9:26 Dragon. He was said to have trained under Chevaliers in Orlais, and honour and discipline even in the bloodiest of battles had always been his motto. Heir, too, disliked superfluous movements, which she claimed were only meant for show and would often lead the victims to a slow and agonizing death. Speed, precision, quick to get in, quicker to get out; the way of the assassin.

Despite his profound dislike of being told what to do, Tristan always took his tutors’ teachings to heart. He didn’t enjoy fighting, despite the rush it always brought. The clarity, the feeling that everything that mattered was concentrated on a single moment, the moment when steel met steel and time became irrelevant; it was exhilarating and addicting, but it never held too much appeal for him. The weight that came with taking a person’s life was always there, whether one acknowledged it or not. In many ways, finishing your opponent quickly and carefully could even be considered a mercy, if it weren’t such rotten business to begin with.

Yet now, he found himself not caring about any of that. Contrary to fighting people, this kind of slaughter carried with it no guilt, no lingering questions of whether it could have been avoided with a tactical manoeuvre, with a carefully chosen word, with just enough intimidation, perhaps. He was slowly starting to realise that spilling the blood of men did indeed stain the soul, in one form or other. Killing darkspawn only stained his armour. Their acrid, rotting blood was notoriously difficult to get off leathers. 

Blackwall’s shield bashed against the skull of one, sending it reeling backwards just as Tristan finished off his third kill. He sank his blade into the black and bloated flesh of its jaw, piercing its brain, and it fell on the muddy ground with a thud. The darkspawn horde had thinned somewhat, although it still felt like they were coming from all sides. They certainly didn’t seem to be that many when they first attacked. There was no visible order to their attack, and that could sometimes prove to be a benefit, but more often than not, it was a hindrance. An organised enemy was harder to beat; a disorganized one was unpredictable, and unpredictability in battle could be deadly. 

Tristan flicked the black, clotting blood from his daggers, wrinkling his nose, just as a darkspawn landed a few feet away from him, hurled by one of Solas’s spells. Contrary to Dorian’s magic, that was flashy as much as it was powerful, Solas’s was quieter, intense yet precise; delicate, in a way. One minute he would see him swinging his staff, the air around him rippling, and the next the enemy was crushed under what seemed like a shimmering, translucent boulder. Dorian had once told him that Solas could summon objects like rocks directly from the Fade, rather than channeling power through the Veil and manipulating it like most other mages did. “It’s as if he can call forth the idea of a rock, or perhaps even a dream or a memory of one. Fascinating, isn’t it? I’m wondering where he learned that trick.”

Tristan had stared at him, perplexed. “Why does he not simply lift a rock and slam it onto his opponent instead?”

Dorian had laughed, then looked at him with an expression of utter horror. “Maker. You’re being serious, aren’t you?” When Tristan had shrugged, he had rolled his eyes and said something in Tevene that he couldn’t quite decipher. After that, he had gone on to explain with startling detail all the different ways one can draw magic from the Fade, and how to manipulate it so that the effect is stronger than actually lifting rocks and throwing them about - “like an uncouth brute,” in Dorian’s own words-, until Tristan could barely stifle his yawns. 

Tristan missed him then. Damn him, but he really did. Travelling without him felt odd and jarring. Fighting without him felt odder still, without his snappy remarks, his laughter, his peevish complaints, even. Without the comfort of knowing that he was just within reach. Even with skilled companions like the ones he had with him now, it still wasn’t the same. 

He shook his head and gritted his teeth, stepping out of the way as another darkspawn ran towards him. Its rusted sword swirled right past him, and with a quick dodge and a turn Tristan sank his blade in the soft spot at the base of its skull. The darkspawn stumbled forward, taking a few steps before landing face down in the mud. 

Heavy, splashing bootsteps sounded behind him and he turned, ready to parry the incoming attack. The undead that rushed to him was tall and heavy, its muscles bulging from beneath its rusty armour. Trying to parry that blow would certainly break his dagger, he realised. He took a step back to avoid it, when the world was suddenly tipped on its head. His breath was knocked out of him when he landed on his back in the mud.

He cursed and groaned painfully. Those cursed, slimy rocks. Before he could stand up, the darkspawn fell on him, sword brandished, black teeth gleaming from behind its rotting lips. 

One of his daggers had flown out of his hand and out of his reach when he fell. The darkspawn wasted no time before slashing at him with his sword, and he brought his arm up to protect himself. The rusted blade slid off the studded leather of his armour, leaving a thick welt behind. With his one dagger, Tristan stabbed it in its belly and its flank, again and again, yet the darkspawn’s hold on him didn’t seem to waver.

From the corner of his eye, Tristan could see that Varric was overrun too, jumping on some crates to avoid the onslaught. Blackwall was fighting against three, while Solas was digging in his satchel for a potion. He thought he caught a glimpse of Hawke stabbing another darkspawn with his greatsword.

“The Inquisitor needs some help!” Tristan heard Varric yelling. He himself was too busy trying to avoid the darkspawn’s blows to speak. The undead slashed at him again, but he rolled to the side, as much as he could while it was still holding him, and its blade sunk in the soft mud underneath. 

It was a perfect chance to attack, if there were any. While the darkspawn’s blade was still deep in the mud, Tristan stabbed its elbow, rendering its arm useless. Still, it kept hitting him with its other arm, trying to bash his head in with its dented gauntlet, as if it had never been hurt.

A blow to his head made Tristan’s ears ring; the arm protecting his head was starting to ache. He struck blindly with his dagger, hoping to fend off any further attacks, when the darkspawn suddenly flew off him. He blinked when he saw Hawke pulling it up from the collar of its armour and tossing it on the ground. The edge of his greatsword glinted silver in the waning light as it cut through the air with a satisfying, metallic hiss, then crunched through armour, flesh and bone when Hawke plunged it straight into the darkspawn’s heart. It flayed about on the ground for a long moment, impaled by Hawke’s blade before finally falling still. 

Hawke drew his sword back, then extended his hand out to Tristan. It was with a hint of reluctance that Tristan took it, then was promptly hauled up on his feet, like a sack of apples. A particularly small one, in this case.

"Be careful where you step, Inquisitor," Hawke said with his usual mocking smile, before dashing off towards Varric.

Covered in mud and soaked to the bone as he was, Tristan could only glare after him.

It wasn't long before the darkspawn horde lay in bloodied heaps on the ground. The village's wooden gates creaked open somewhat reluctantly and the sorry wretches that passed for guards gaped at them from beneath their dingy helmets.

"Maker's breath," the man that had been holding the crossbow stammered. "You-you killed all the darkspawn! We've been trying to fend them off for days. We even tried to throw burning oil on them, but the walls caught fire." Tristan resisted the urge to roll his eyes at that. 

"I doubt you've seen the last of them," Hawke replied. 

The guard nodded grimly. "They always come back. But you might have given us a few days of peace. And for that, we are thankful."

Tristan gazed at the village that lay beyond the wooden walls. Rows of low houses, most of their fences in need of repair and their roofs of fresh thatch. With that much rain, though, replacing sopping wet thatch with even more wet thatch was useless, he supposed. The animal pens were almost empty, save for a few miserable chickens milling about. In the darkness of the fast approaching dusk, Tristan could make out some of the faces of the people that had come out of their houses to peer at them. Guarded expressions, tight mouths, eyes fixed on them with an intensity that belied suspicion and fear. Possibly ready to scramble back inside and bolt their doors at the first sign of trouble. It was the same everywhere in Thedas these days. Tristan could hardly blame them.

"Our mayor could repay you for your help, my lords," the man continued. "We don't have much, but whatever you need, you'll have."

"No need," Blackwall started. "We only did what-"

"Is there an inn around here?" Tristan asked abruptly. A drink, a warm bath and a comfortable bed was in order after being drenched in mud and darkspawn blood. And perhaps a chance to get away from the villagers’ lingering looks.

Blackwall frowned. “I thought we were going back to our camp.”

“An inn doesn’t sound like a very bad idea,” Varric said quickly. “I’m with the In- with Blondie on this.”

The guard blinked at them all, then bobbed his head. "Aye, my lords. We don't get many travellers any more, but our inn should prove just the thing for you. Master Thenn will set you up nicely."

Tristan nodded sharply before fishing a sovereign out of his coin purse and tossing it to the guard. He caught it in the air, then gaped at the gold that shone in his palm. "See to the horses," Tristan told him before marching towards where the man had pointed.

The innkeeper's eyes went wide as saucers when he saw them approaching, but his shock was short lived. Soon, he was bowing and scraping before them, showing them all to their respective rooms and snappishly ordering his helpers about. Blackwall and Solas would share a room, as well as Hawke and Varric. Tristan would have one all to himself.

 _Thank the Maker and all things holy,_ he thought as he walked into his room and closed the door behind him. It was small and held no other furniture other than a bed, a washstand and a chair in front of the hearth. A copper tub had been hauled in by the innkeeper and his son, a tall boy with dusty brown hair, a neck thick like a bull’s and unusually rosy cheeks, that had gaped at him in astonishment until his father had growled at him to go to the kitchens. A damp chill permeated the space, as if the fire had not been lit in weeks, perhaps even months. Tristan wouldn’t be surprised if they were the first guests in a more than a year.

He let out an audible breath that he hadn’t realised he had been holding when he finally took off his grimy leathers and sank in the warm water of his bath. He let it work its magic as he closed his eyes.

His head, when he rested it on the bath tub's edge, felt heavier than a boulder.

Going over the events of the day thus far did not prove of much help. Loghain, and the Wardens and that inexplicable Calling… There was no way to untangle Corypheus’s plans. At times, it felt like he cut off one head of the beast, only for two to spring back. He had thought that dismantling the Freemen in the Emerald Graves would have dealt him a decent blow. But Corypheus had only lost one meagre pawn and gotten hold of a far stronger, and far more dangerous one. The Elder One was about to make his move, and the Inquisition was trapped in a checkmate.

Still, he couldn’t know whether Loghain was correct, or even reliable. Who knew if this was not some elaborate plan, created to throw him off his balance? Make him look somewhere, while Corypheus was preparing to strike from somewhere else? 

And where did Hawke fit into all of this? What was he getting out of it? He had to be careful. He had to be extremely careful.

 _Watch everyone_ , his mother would have said. _Trust no one_. He wasn’t exactly sure why her voice popped in his head more and more often as of late. Perhaps because she was the most suspicious person he knew. She always managed to see right through any scheme, any false smile, any veiled barb. There had been plenty of these in the ballrooms of the Free Marches and beyond. Tilly and he would accompany her to those events because they had no other choice, and he would spend most of his time drinking and eyeing the sons of the other distinguished families, but it surprised him now to realise how many of the things he had seen and learnt there had stuck with him.

Memories of the boring and stifling parties lulled him into a light and fitful sleep. He wasn't sure how long he had been lying in the tub when the sounds of thunder clapping outside and the rift in the lake crackling made him jolt bolt upright. The mark on his palm was flaring green, the same sharp pain numbing his fingers, electricity running along his skin. He brought it close to his chest and rubbed it absently, taking in deep breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart.

Images of strange and confusing dreams lingered just behind his eyelids as he shifted in the tub. The water had stopped being warm long before, and the fire in the hearth was reduced to a few sorry, blackened logs. He shivered as he stood up, patting down his body with the scratchy towel the innkeeper had left for him. His filthy leather armour was laying on the floor where he had tossed it before getting in the water. He was not about to get into that before it was cleaned to an acceptable degree. 

The guard had brought all of their satchels from their horses, and Tristan now rummaged through it, looking for something to wear. The bed looked inviting, but he didn’t think he would be getting much more sleep than what he had already got, not with those fuzzy nightmares just at the edges of his consciousness, and the mark on his palm flaring every time the cursed rift in the lake crackled. Not to mention his throat, that felt parched as paper. He hurriedly pulled on a pair of leather breeches, a clean shirt and his muddy boots before heading downstairs for a drink.

The common room was relatively small and crammed. There were no decorations that Tristan could see, save for a faded and dusty Fereldan flag hanging behind the bar. The small round tables and the dingy chairs looked like they hadn’t been waxed in years, their wooden surface dull even though they seemed to have been recently wiped clean. The room was empty save for a lone figure by the counter, sipping from a mug that looked just as dull and old as the rest of the place. 

Tristan pursed his lips. The last person he wanted to speak to at that moment was Hawke. Especially not after he had saved his hide during the fight with the darkspawn. Just remembering his smug grin was enough to make his temper flare.

Before he could retreat soundlessly back to his room, Hawke’s chair creaked as he turned around to glance at him. “Inquisitor,” he said, that amused smile widening his lips as if it were already there before he saw him. “Come, sit. Have a drink.”

The urge to scowl was strong, but his need for a stiff drink was stronger. He took the seat next to him, looking around for the innkeeper. Of course, the bar and the kitchens behind it were empty at that hour. 

Hawke leaned over the counter, as if he owned the place, and caught a mug by its rim, then set it in front of Tristan. The bottle that was next to him, and that he tipped over the empty mug, was a somewhat dusty one made of cloudy brown glass, and had no tags that Tristan could see. The liquid that poured forth from its mouth was golden hued, a distinct scent of crushed mulberries reaching his nostrils. 

“What is it?” Tristan asked, bringing up to his nose to smell it.

“Whisky.”

Tristan shot him a suspicious look. “That is not whisky.”

“Sure it is. It’s a local whisky. It’s called _berig_. Try it.”

Reluctantly, he lifted it towards his lips. A cut he had managed to get during the fight before and that he had barely noticed stung as the drink touched it. He swallowed, and his tongue went slightly numb. Then, his throat was burning.

Tristan coughed, wincing. “Maker,” he croaked. “It’s bloody terrible.”A jug of water was between him and Hawke. He poured some water into his mug, then took another sip. He coughed, winced again. “Still terrible.”

“It grows on you. Give it time.”

An awkward silence spread between them for several moments, the only sounds being Hawke refilling his glass. He didn’t seem overly eager to get under his skin, for once. That was certainly odd. 

“Couldn’t get any sleep?” 

“No,” Hawke replied. “You?”

Tristan shook his head, running his finger over the rim of his mug. He stole a sidelong glance at him. Hawke seemed tired, almost… somber. It also looked like he had been drinking for quite a while. 

His gut twisted uneasily. Still, he made himself speak. If there was ever a time to express his gratitude without having Hawke sneer at his every word, then that would probably be it.

“Thank you for… for getting that darkspawn off me back there. I...” He paused for a moment, gritting his teeth. “I appreciate it.”

Hawke gave him a curious look, then let out a low, throaty chuckle, muffled from within his mug. “That sounded painful.”

“What did?”

“You. Thanking someone. Must feel like pulling teeth. It definitely sounded like it.”

Tristan grumbled in annoyance at Hawke’s tone. There really was no talking with this man. He set his mug down on the counter with a loud thud and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Hawke said, catching his arm. “Sit down.”

“Why?” Tristan spat. “So you can mock me right in my face?”

“Just sit, will you? I’ll be nice. But you’ll have to promise to be nice as well.” 

Tristan glared at him for a couple more moments, then drew his arm away from his grasp. He sat back down, wincing as he took another sip of the whisky, his stomach roiling. 

With slow, languorous movements, Hawke fished in his coat pocket for his pouch of smoking leaf and his pipe. He filled it unhurriedly, then lit it with a flint and his small dagger. The long stem clicked against his teeth when he caught it between them. “Listen, I know you don’t like me. I don’t like you much either. We don’t have to be friends to finish this mission, but it helps if we’re not at each other’s throats half the damned time. So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “just ask me whatever it is you want to ask me.”

Tristan frowned. “I don’t want to ask you anything.”

“See? Now you’re brooding. And it’s not helping.”

“I am not brooding.”

“Fine, pouting then.” Tristan glared at him. “Sulking?”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” he replied through gritted teeth, yet he knew that Hawke could see right through him. He _did_ have questions to ask him; a great deal, in fact. Yet, that wasn’t the way he had learned. It wasn’t the way of the nobility he had been raised in. An open, straightforward conversation was hardly ever the preferred method - only when you had a chance to take your opponent by surprise, lull them into a false sense of safety first, get them where you wanted them; after that, a frontal attack with carefully chosen questions that would cut straight through their defences and extract as much information from them before they could realise they had even given it away. 

Tristan pressed the heels of his palms over his eyes. Maker, but he was tired. He was tired of this endless back and forth, of the doubts, of the suspicion. He wasn’t cut out for it. For any of it. It might have been the way his mother had taught him, the cunning way, the way of the schemer and the tactician; but it was stretching him thin. If Hawke was offering a way out of that, out of all the dancing around what he truly wanted to know… perhaps he should take it.

His fingers tightened about his mug, and he stared long and hard at it. “You never answered my question before,” he said quietly.

“What question?”

“About Loghain. You said we should believe what he says, but how do you know his information to be true?” The fire crackled in the small hearth, and the bitter aftertaste of the whisky clung to the roof of his mouth. Hawke was silent, waiting. “Even when you have no other option, how do you go about trusting someone when it’s only logical not to?”

Hawke didn’t say anything for what felt like minutes. He turned back around to face the bar and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “Is your question about Loghain, Inquisitor,” he asked, “or about me?”

There they were again. The words to cut through the armour and the flesh and the bone, straight to the heart of the problem. Hawke was clever. Perhaps too clever. 

“What if it’s about both?” Tristan asked, willing his voice to stay level. “Why are you really here, Hawke?”

His voice, when he spoke, was sharp and flat. “It must be hard for you to accept that there are people other than you that have personal stakes in this war.”

“What’s yours then?”

Hawke threw his hand up in the air with an exasperated huff. “Blood and ashes, you have a particularly short memory, don’t you? I want Corypheus dead as much as you do. Is that not reason enough for you?” He looked at Tristan, who kept gazing at him under furrowed brows. They glared at each other for a long moment, before he let out a long sigh and took another draught from his mug. 

“Alright,” he said, his voice half choked from the vile brew. “There’s something else. There’s someone that’s... important to me. He’s a Grey Warden. He had been acting strange for a while, ever since the whole business with Corypheus started. One day, he told me he had some important business to take care of, that he wouldn’t be gone for long, and then he just… disappeared.” He puffed on his pipe, the thick silvery cloud obscuring his features. “I felt like an idiot for letting him go like that. I had my suspicions that something was wrong, but never any proof. And now, those suspicions are confirmed. If Corypheus is truly controlling the Grey Wardens’ minds… if he can truly make them believe they’re dying and is leading them to Maker knows what madness, then I resolved to do anything within my power to stop him. Of course, I want to finish what I started and kill Corypheus once and for all. But more than that… I have to make sure that those I love are safe from harm. I simply have to.” 

He pressed his eyes shut for a breath, then opened them again. His mug rang hollowly when placed it back on the counter, empty. “So, there you have it. These are my reasons. Evidently, they’re important enough for me to leave my safety behind and come all the way here, and put up with a miserable bastard such as yourself.”

Tristan frowned and opened his mouth to speak, more questions and sharp retorts to Hawke’s insult at the ready. He met the challenge in the other man’s gaze, but he also saw something else, something that made everything he was about to say die at the tip of his tongue.

Hawke’s face was pale and drawn, his mouth set in a line, his brows furrowed, but behind the irritation and the blunt remarks, and perhaps even behind his usual mocking smiles and his scathing jokes, Tristan thought he caught a glimmer of the same sadness and weariness in his dark brown eyes that must have been lurking behind his own.

He closed his mouth and looked away, embarrassment stinging his cheeks. He took a long draught of the whisky, feeling his insides twist as he swallowed.

Hawke was evidently irked by his silence. “Oh, and now he’s brooding again. That’s grand.” He huffed and bit on the stem of his pipe. “Tell me, if you distrust me so much, why did you accept my help? You could have ignored me. You could have sent me away. You could have ordered your people to interrogate, or kill me, even. Yet, you came here. Why?”

Tristan gritted his teeth. “Because, as you said, I have no other option.”

“Then, what in the void is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Bollocks.”

Tristan’s heart was racing when he turned around to look at him. The mark in his hand flared and crackled, in tune with the waves of anger rushing through him, but Hawke’s eyes never left his, as if oblivious to the bright green light that coloured the side of his face. 

“I’m surrounded by people whose intentions I question more and more with every passing day. Every _fucking_ day.” His nails dug deep into his palms when he curled them into fists. “You think it’s easy for me, to simply suspend my disbelief because I have no other choice? This is worse than having a choice. Worse still than having to choose between two terrible things. I’m stuck in a corner, yet I need to make decisions that might undo the world. Everything I have achieved, and everything the Inquisition has achieved will have been for naught. If I fall, the Inquisition falls; and it will not fall gracefully.”

They stared at each other for a long while, Tristan’s heated glare meeting Hawke’s thoughtful gaze. There was no anger in his eyes now. Only something that resembled sympathy. 

Tristan couldn’t look at those deep, considering eyes any longer. He glanced away, downing his drink, wincing and coughing as it burned its way down his throat. He brushed his knuckle over his lips, feeling Hawke’s gaze on him still. It vexed him to no end.

“If you keep staring at me like that, Hawke, I swear I’ll bash your skull in.”

Hawke laughed, a loud, booming laugh that reached every dark and cold corner of the room. “”Bash my skull in”,” he said, still chuckling. “I’d like to see you try. I don’t pity you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just happen to understand you.”

Tristan’s laugh was bitter and sarcastic. “I doubt it.”

“I do, though.”

Tristan turned to look at him, and Hawke gave him a small, amused smirk as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms before him.

“Do you want a word of advice, Inquisitor?”

“No,” Tristan grumbled, glancing back into his empty cup. “But I’ll hear it anyway.”

Hawke’s smile widened. “My advice,” he said slowly, “is that trust is overrated.”

Tristan frowned. “Some advice that is.”

“I mean it. You said you don’t trust the people around you. Then don’t. You don’t need trust in order to do what needs to be done. Now, faith,” he said, “faith is what you truly need.”

“I never took you for a religious man.”

“I’m not,” Hawke replied calmly, blowing out a steady stream of smoke. “I’m talking about faith in others, and yourself. Faith in your fate, if you will. We all have one, whether we like it or not. Take it from a man that’s been on the run for years. You can’t do what you have set out to do without faith that things will be better once you do it. Whatever is meant to happen, will happen, and sometimes nothing you can do or say will change it.” He smiled fondly, as if remembering something someone had said to him long ago. “Sometimes you have to accept that your fate isn’t something you can outthink.”

Tristan ran his thumb over his ring, considering. Hawke’s words were simple and straightforward, his approach to life even more so. It couldn’t be more at odds with his own, yet he still found himself oddly drawn to it. “So, what are you saying?” he asked tentatively. “That I should just… what, go ahead, and hope things will work out for the best?”

Hawke thought for a moment, then nodded. “Essentially, yes. That’s what I’ve always done. And it’s worked.” Tristan quirked an eyebrow and Hawke chuckled. “To an extent, it has! I still have my head about my shoulders, don’t I? Anyway, that’s beside the point. All I’m saying is, keep your eyes open, but have faith. You have good people around you. Consider yourself lucky.”

Tristan smiled bitterly. “A strange sort of luck.”

“True. But luck all the same.”

They stayed silent for a long while after that. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the small room, then thunder made the old windows creak on their hinges. 

“You may be right, Hawke,” he said earnestly. “You may just be right.” He let out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. “If it means anything, I’m sorry about your… about your Grey Warden friend.”

Hawke looked startled for a moment, then frowned. “So am I,” he replied. He tapped his finger rhythmically on the side of his mug, then shot him a sidelong look. “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“What would you have done if you hadn’t become the Inquisitor?”

The question took Tristan aback. _Probably drunk myself to death,_ he thought, but didn’t give voice to the thought. It still stung to be reminded how close he had once been to letting it all go. “Not sure,” he said after a while, brushing the memories away.

“No fortune to take care of? I’ve heard you Trevelyans are fat with it.”

Tristan scoffed. “I never had any interest in taking up my family’s legacy. I left that life behind long ago.” He poured some whisky in his mug, diluting it with some water, then slowly brought the mug up to his lips. The whisky still tasted sour and bitter to him, but he didn’t feel like retching anymore. Perhaps it really had grown on him. “What about you?”

Hawke shrugged. “Before everything went to shit, you mean? I wanted to travel the world. Perhaps I would have become a mercenary. Or joined a pirate ship.” He laughed softly, idly brushing the stem of his pipe over his lips. “I’ve always been restless. There’s a reason why trouble always seems to find me, wherever I happen to be.”

“That… might be something I’m familiar with.” Tristan glanced at the flames in the hearth, steadily eating away at the thick and sturdy logs. A small, mischievous smile quirked the side of his mouth as he turned back to Hawke. “Speaking of trouble,” he said, “Varric never finished that story of yours.”

“Oh, Maker, not you, too,” Hawke grumbled, rolling his eyes. When Tristan didn’t look away, he exhaled sharply. “ _Fine_. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to let Varric know. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Tristan nodded. “Deal.”

Hawke puffed on his pipe, brows drawn down in a thoughtful frown. Smoke shrouded his face when he exhaled, the silver tendrils tangling in his hair and the dark stubble on his cheeks before drifting upwards. “That man that approached me showed me to the boat with the sacks of poppy seeds that night. It was a small and dingy one, that still reeked of fish from whoever he had bought it from. The sacks were all under a leather covering. He gave me half the money there, and said his associates would give me the other half once I made it to Redcliffe.”

“Did you ever check under the cover?”

“No.”

Tristan sneered, and Hawke shot him a sharp look. “I was young, alright?”

“Stupid, more likely.”

“Aye, maybe a little bit of that, too,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Anyway, I rowed all night in that filthy thing. It was almost dawn when I made it to the port the man had indicated in Redcliffe. There were two men waiting on the wooden platform, who I assumed were his associates. I got closer, and as soon as I got off the boat they attacked me.”

Tristan’s eyes widened. “What? Just like that?”

“Yep. Swords and everything. I only had my dagger with me. The first man lunged at me, just as I had put my foot on the platform. I rolled away and pulled my dagger. Then the second man attacked, going straight for my neck. I brought my dagger up, slashing through his thigh. He fell down, and the first man came for me again. He was a grizzled, mean looking man with a thick moustache and a scar along his jaw. He slashed at me with his sword and said, “I’ll gut you like a fish, boy.” And I said, “Not if I gut you first, you ugly, stinking gaffer.” Then he said "What, with that kitchen knife of yours? Why don't you chop some onions too while you're at it?" And then I said-”

“Yes, yes, and then you exchanged more ingenious insults, I’m sure,” Tristan said, urging him on with a bored wave. “Did you beat him?” 

“Impatient, are you?” Hawke said, amused. “Of course I beat him. Would I be here if I hadn’t?” He took another draught from his pipe before he continued. “So, they’re both lying on the ground with their bellies open, and I am fuming. What kind of pesky deal was that, that I almost got my head split in half? I go over to the boat and lift the leather cover. And you won’t believe what was under there.”

Tristan bit his tongue before asking what it was, but his interest in the story must have been plain on his face.

Hawke leaned back, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “The most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Hair like spun gold. Eyes green like emeralds. Skin like burnished copper. The moment she saw me, she ran into my arms, begging me to take her to safety.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I know, right? I was surprised, too.”

“No, really,” Tristan said. “This is the most ridiculous story I have ever heard.”

“It’s true!” Hawke protested. “Fine, maybe she didn’t fling herself in my arms then. But I know she wanted to. I had just saved her life. Apparently, the man that approached me in Lothering was one of her household retainers. Her family wanted to marry her off to a lord from Denerim twice her age, and she had made up this plan to escape. But her husband-to-be had learned of it, and sent his men to drag her back. She was lucky I managed to kill them both before they took her.”

“Well. I guess you did say that trouble always has a way of finding you,” Tristan said, nodding in agreement. “What did you do with her?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Hawke said with a sly smile. “She took me to an inn in Redcliffe. We stayed there for a week under false names. Best week of my life.” He let out a soft, reminiscent sigh. “I’ll never forget her.”

“What happened to her?”

“What do you think happened? She left me and went back to her rich husband. I begged her to stay, but she wouldn’t hear of it. My family barely had enough to pay for firewood at the time. It had been a tough winter.” 

“Oh,” Tristan breathed. Sympathy swelled in his chest before he could rein it in. “That must have been hard for you.”

“I was heartbroken,” Hawke replied sadly, shaking his head. “It took me… one whole day to recover.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and groaned. “Oh, sod off. And here I thought you were a real romantic.”

“I am! It was a very full day.”

“Full of booze, I wager.”

“Enough to sink a small barge.” Hawke chuckled as he picked up the bottle and filled up both their mugs. He held his up and extended it towards Tristan. “Here. To terrible booze that helps us forget our heartaches.”

Tristan hesitated for a moment, before picking up his mug and touching it against Hawke’s. “To terrible booze.”

“And pretty women.”

Tristan smirked. “Or men.”

“Or men,” Hawke echoed with a mischievous grin, downing his whisky. “So, there you have it. That’s why Varric calls me Poppy. Our friend is nothing if not creative when it comes to picking nicknames.” His cheeks were flushed as he picked up the bottle again. “That warrants another drink.”

“I think you’re drunk already.”

“Maybe,” Hawke said earnestly. “But you are not.” He tipped the bottle over Tristan’s mug, serving him a generous helping of the vile whisky. 

Tristan wrinkled his nose when the strong smell of the drink hit him once more. He reached for the jug to pour some water into his mug, when Hawke _tsked_.

“Don’t make punch of that whisky, man,” he said, waving his hand away. “Liquor up.”

Tristan smiled as he let the jug touch the counter again. “Whatever you say, Poppy.”

Hawke eyed him sternly, shaking a finger before his face. “It’s _Captain_ Poppy to you.”

The laughter that broke free from his lips was bright and true, and perhaps the first he had had in days. He raised his mug and downed his drink in one go, letting the warmth of the whisky seep deep into his bones. 

"Aye, Captain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun headcannon: _Berig_ is Crestwood's version of moonshine, that is only called "whisky" to trip up outsiders. I imagine the boys will have one hell of a hangover come the morrow. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	25. To Want and To Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long absence, folks! Life has been a little hectic, and I may have fallen down a couple rabbit holes, but I'm back with a fairly long-ish chapter so... I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> NSFW ahead!

Dorian squinted at the papers before him. His desk was full of them, so full, in fact, that he could barely see the dark mahogany wood underneath the layers of parchment spread out in a messy array. He had been at this for days, weeks, it felt like, ever since they had all returned from the Emerald Graves. His head was heavy, the diagrams and glyphs he had copied from the Venatori ritual dancing behind his eyelids, even when he closed them for the night. Most of them were confusing and incomprehensible, but there was something so familiar in them that Dorian couldn’t help but wrack his brain to find it. It was driving him quite mad.

With a heavy sigh, he glanced outside the library window, overlooking the training grounds. Too often had he stood there, watching Trevelyan practice with Heir. Hours could pass without him realising it, following with keen eyes as Trevelyan flowed through the various poses, tight muscles flexing and relaxing under his pale skin, flushed from the sun and the exertion, blonde strands clinging to the sweat at the nape of his neck. Dorian’s heart thrummed with longing when he looked down to find the grounds void of Trevelyan’s presence. It felt to him like they had been apart for ages, although it was little less than a week.

It was with a hint of reluctance that he turned back to his research. He smoothed his fingers over a yellow and wrinkled piece of parchment, one he had found in a dusty corner of the library. It was a thesis on mind-control spells and their effects on small rodents by one Marcellus Tulius, that Dorian hadn’t at all expected to find there. It seemed unlikely that even a sliver of Imperium research had found its way to Skyhold, yet there it was, right before him. Unexpected discoveries like these always excited him, and this time was no exception. Still, he wasn’t sure of how much help this would be in his current research.

He was about to gather all of the papers and call it a day, when a memory tugged at him as his eyes fell on the old parchment again. He remembered the last time he had found something like that, when he was still under Alexeus’ tutelage. It had been an exceedingly hot day, a scorching western wind blowing from the desert. Sand and dust hung over the tall marble spires of Minrathous, the sky tinged in hues of blue and muted yellow as Dorian had woven his way through the crowded streets on his way to the Grand Library.

Small beads of sweat had clung to his brow when he was finally away from the stifling heat and into the magically induced coolness of the Library inner. His feet had taken him down the narrow marble stairs towards the underground library, reserved for high ranking members. He had been looking for a certain thesis on time magic, but as usual he had veered off that to brush the tips of his fingers over ancient scrolls and documents. It was there that a scroll had fallen from the shelves, the leather binding around it almost crumbling with age. The glyphs etched on the smooth surface were unlike any he had ever seen. Elegant, flowy lines, precise to the point of madness, incantations in ancient languages lost to time. His eyes had widened so, he had thought they would pop out of their sockets. Blood magic at its finest- if it could ever be called that- and so terribly similar to the ones the Venatori had been using that it could not be a coincidence.

Dorian’s pulse quickened as he snatched his notes from his desk, trying to compare them to the glyphs of his memory. Yes, they looked vaguely similar. Unless his memory betrayed him, which was very rarely the case. If this ritual was based on the one he had seen on that scroll, then that would mean… No, it was impossible. The magic described in that scroll was powerful enough to subdue a dragon to the caster’s will. A dragon filled to the brim with lyrium, at that. The Venatori mages had done much to reduce the spell’s potency, but even so it was no surprise that the poor people they had used it on perished almost straight away. What in the Void could the Venatori possibly be doing?

He stood up abruptly, clutching his notes close to his chest. He had to tell Trevelyan. He had to tell him straightaway. This couldn’t wait. He would pull him out of whatever meeting he was in, even if he had to fight his way through his armoured guards. He would-

Oh. Yes. Of course. Trevelyan wasn’t there. How could he forget?

He sat back down with a soft exhale, absently arranging the papers in neat stacks. He would need to send a letter to Maevaris, asking her to look for the mysterious scroll, or any other work written by that mage, even though Dorian wondered how easily it would be found again after so long. Maevaris had always been thrifty with her resources, but even she couldn’t work miracles.

A calloused hand with ragged, bitten nails flew past his shoulder to snatch the paper Dorian was holding, startling him from his thoughts.

“Oi,” Sera’s voice said. “What in the frigging Void are those squiggles?” She tilted her head this way and that, features smushing in a confused frown. “That what you stare at all day?”

“Give that back.” Dorian stood up, taking a step towards her as she backed away, giggling, holding the paper out of his reach. “Sera.”

Sera let out a shrill laugh, perching herself on the back of the armchair in the corner. “And here I thought it would be a naughty letter. Must have loads of those, right?”

“Whatever are you talking about, my dear?”

“You and Quizzie-butt, ‘course!” she explained. “I bet you send all sorts of notes to each other. Telling him how you’re going to _stab_ him. Or is it him that does the stabbing? Do you draw him pictures of your staff, too?” She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Sera, I’m going to need this paper back now.”

She pretended not to hear him, curiously examining the glyphs on the parchment in her hands, squinting. “If his bits look like that, it’s no wonder you act like you have a bloody stick up your arse all the time. Yeesh.”

“Sera-”

“Fine, fine, here you go. Wouldn’t want that thing anywhere near me, anyway.” She handed the paper back to him and Dorian snatched it away, huffing in annoyance. She slid off the armchair, hands- for once- clasped behind her back as she perused the neatly arranged books on his shelf. “I heard His Inky-arse-ness will be back within the week. Can’t wait for a proper round of jousting, eh? That might brighten up that sour mood of yours.”

Dorian gritted his teeth, shooting a cautious glance around the rotunda. Thankfully, there weren’t many researchers on the floor at that time of day, most of them having left for lunch. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Any buckets of water to fix above someone’s door? Any lizards to hide under someone’s mattress? Quite literally anything else other than pester me?”

“Done that already,” Sera shrugged, leaning forward to squint at a vial by his windowsill. She touched it gingerly with the tip of her finger, then recoiled in disgust, wiping her hand on her stained vest. “How does it work with you two, by the way? I’ve been wondering.”

“What, the jousting? Less horses, marginally. More cheers, definitely.”

“Nice,” she said, smiling wickedly. “But I wasn’t asking about that.” She shot him a curious glance over her shoulder. “How does it work, being the Inky’s man?”

 _Am I?_ he wondered, his gut clenching uneasily. Ever since they had returned from the Graves, it hadn’t been clear to him what they were exactly. Dorian may have left it vague on purpose himself, but it wasn’t as though Trevelyan had been overly eager to define what it was they were doing. Oh, he was thoughtful and caring with him, of course, and seemed to be very fond of him, what with those lingering glances and tender touches, and all the nights they had spent together in his room. Not to mention the poems and the flowers - _flowers!_ \- he kept leaving by his pillow before slipping away in the mornings, before Dorian had even opened his eyes. It had startled him at first, confused him, turned his otherwise carefully arranged thoughts into a jumble. Which seemed to be the case more often than not when it came to Trevelyan. What was going through that man’s mind was nobody’s business, yet even so Dorian could see that he cared, he _cared_ … yet where did that care end? How far did his affection extend? And where did reality kick in, with Trevelyan being the leader of the Inquisition, all eyes in Thedas turned to him, and Dorian simply being an adornment on his arm at best, a pretty on the side at worst?

Dorian’s lips tightened in a line, his heart even more so. “Fine. Everything is fine. Splendid, actually. Yes, it’s quite fantastic, indeed.”

Sera looked at him under furrowed brows, chewing on a fingernail. “That bad?”

Dorian blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Shut it. He slumped against his desk, crossing his arms before his chest. “... Maybe.” He rubbed his temples, sighed. “Worse, probably?”

“Right.” Sera strolled towards him, sitting on the desk beside him. “He does make puppy eyes at you too when you’re not looking, you know. If it makes you feel any better.”

He chuckled breathily, looking away. “I’m not sure it does, right now.” His mind drifted to the last time he had seen him in his quarters. Trevelyan’s eyes, dark and blue like whirling pools, gazing up at him with so much tenderness, his arms wrapped around him, and Dorian feeling suspended in a moment of bliss that seemed never-ending. Of course, the moment had soon shattered when Dorian had put his foot in his mouth and started talking about exclusivity or whatever other nonsense had crossed his mind right then. And then ran away in a panic. Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus, had panicked. As simple as that. They hadn’t exchanged so much as a word before Trevelyan left for dratted Crestwood, and Dorian had been steadily boiling in a stew of his own making ever since.

“I’m not sure where I fit in this whole thing,” he muttered, more to himself than to Sera. “Or if I do at all, in fact.”

“It’s never easy being with someone like him,” Sera said, nodding thoughtfully. “I would have ran for the hills long before if I were you. Wouldn’t want that kind of attention on me, if you catch my drift. But I’m not you. Thank Andraste for that, right? Friggin’ sparkly shite all over the place.” Dorian glared at her, and she laughed. “Look, if you want him, better just tell him, yeah? If it’s not meant to work out, it won’t, and that’s that. At least you can say you tried.”

Dorian sighed softly. Perhaps Sera, despite her usual gibberish, had advice to impart that could almost be considered wise. Perhaps he really should talk to Trevelyan and clear the air once and for all. Or… he could come up with a way to make up for his blunder. A particularly creative way.

"Why are you smiling like a fecking dimwit?"

Dorian snapped out of his thoughts to give Sera a cold glare. "I am not smiling, I am _thinking_. This is what it looks like when people _think_."

"Thinking about how to include sword swallowing in your magic trick routine?"

"Right! I think that's enough chatting with you for one day." He stood up, herding her towards the stairs. "Off you go now. That's marvelous, yes, one foot in front of the other. So long. Give the Iron Bull my regards." Sera’s high pitched cackle echoed around the rotunda as she hopped down the steps.

* * *

The headache that seemed to split his head in two as soon when he opened his eyes the following morning was amongst the worst Tristan had had in months. Years. Perhaps ever. Probably ever.

He groaned as he swung his legs over the side of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had been so drunk the previous night when he went to bed, almost to the point of blacking out, that he couldn’t quite remember walking up the stairs. On the bright side of things, with that amount of whisky, he had managed to get something close to a full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. The mark flared ever so slightly, a sickly, fluorescent green that cut through the dimness of the room. A soft sound, like hushed whispers, a sussurus of distant voices pulled at the edges of his consciousness, and Tristan shook his head weakly. He must still be drunk, he supposed.

The aftertaste of that terrible whisky he and Hawke had drunk still clung to the back of his throat when he pushed himself up, his stomach roiling painfully. Had it even been whisky? He highly doubted that now. His taste buds had been so blitzed the previous night he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell stale beer from Antivan wine, but now he was thoroughly regretting his choices. Some of them, at the very least.

He made his way down the stairs, cursing under his breath as the world still swung every time he made an abrupt movement. Everybody was already up, breaking their fast on what looked like sweet, milky porridge. Tristan was sure he would vomit.

“Blondie!” Varric said cheerfully, raising his mug. “Come, join us.”

“We thought you’d be dead or passed out. Was about to come wake you,” Blackwall added.

“Who told you he wasn’t?” Hawke chuckled, sipping from his mug. “With the amount of berig he drank last night I’m surprised he’s still standing.”

“You drank way more than I did,” Tristan grumbled, sitting beside him. He leaned forward to glance inside Hawke’s mug, wrinkling his nose when he found it was honeyed tea. “If anyone were to die, that should have been you, don’t you think?”

Varric laughed. “Him? Die of drink? No, Blondie. He could drink a boatload of whisky and still be up swinging his sword the next morning. I don’t know what his liver is made of, but he can drink like no one I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve told you time and time again, Varric. I have my Fereldan roots to thank for that. You born and bred Marchers couldn’t handle your liquor if your life depended on it.”

“Hey,” Blackwall cut in, shaking a finger before his face, eyes narrowed. Even so, Tristan could see that he was only half serious. “We Marchers are a proud lot. Watch your tongue.”

“Or what?” Hawke retorted, shooting him a wry grin. “You’re going to pelt me with Grand Tourney trivia until I fling myself out the window?”

Tristan scoffed. “Not all Marchers are obsessed with the Grand Tourney, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me who won the title in 9:31 Dragon.”

Tristan, Varric and Blackwall exchanged awkward glances. Varric’s brows were already climbing up his forehead, warning them not to fall in Hawke’s trap, but Blackwall was the first one to cave in. “Ser Abel Cailan the Brave,” he grumbled.

“....from Denerim.” Tristan added half heartedly.

“....sword and shield category,” Varric finished, eyeing him sideways.

Hawke leaned back in his seat, mirth playing at the edges of his lips. “What a pretty picture you all make. Add a dash of superiority complex, mage antipathy and a weird obsession with Antivan spiced cakes, and you’re all the perfect example of the average Kirkwaller.”

The three of them groaned, rolling their eyes while Hawke’s booming laughter echoed around the small room. From his table at the corner, Solas eyed them over his book, one brow raised.

“Hey elf,” Blackwall said, turning to him. “Your travels must have taken you to the Marches at some point. Care to give us your insights about the people there?”

Solas’ expression became stony for a quick moment, before he adjusted in his seat, discreetly clearing his throat. “I’m afraid I would have nothing to contribute to this conversation. The Marches are as lackluster a place as any, and the inhabitants even more so.”

Blackwall glared at him, just as Hawke let out a loud guffaw. “I think I may have found myself an unlikely ally, Blackwall.”

The rest of the breakfast flowed in a similar vein, Hawke’s teasing jokes and clever quips making Varric and Blackwall laugh until there were tears in their eyes. Even Tristan laughed once or twice, taking care to hide the sound within his mug. It felt like hours later that they gathered their things, walking out into a day that was as miserable, grey and rainy as the rest. The inn’s stables were humble, but at least the horses had been given fresh hay and water. Almond wickered softly when she saw him, tossing her head back when Tristan reached inside his pocket for a piece of dried apple he always kept for her.

“Good girl,” he whispered, stroking her forehead as she chewed.

“That’s a fine horse you have there.”

“She is,” Tristan agreed with a small smile, glancing at Hawke over his shoulder. “So is yours.”

“You’re in a fine mood today,” the other man said, leaning against the door of the stall. “You should get plastered more often.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “I really should.” He walked around Almond, his palm brushing her shiny coat as he moved to fix the saddle on her back. “My advisors wouldn’t be particularly pleased if I showed up to my meetings reeking of booze, but I think I can get away with it every once in a while.”

“You can. The world will still be there if you let loose every now and then, of that I can assure you. I’ve found that a few drinks and good company can solve just about anything.”

“I wish I shared your optimism.”

“It’s only common sense. Good times and good people are always needed, even in the most dire of circumstances. Perhaps especially then.”

Tristan sneaked a glance at him from the corner of his eye. “Why are you telling me all this?” He moved to Almond’s other side, turning his back to him.

He heard the brush of Hawke’s hand against the dark stubble of his cheeks. “Our conversation last night got me thinking. When you are elevated to such great heights, it's easy to forget that you're only human sometimes. Humans are not meant to handle so much on their own.”

"Right." The familiarity in Hawke's tone made Tristan bristle. He kept fixing the saddle about Almond's back, checking and rechecking straps and buckles that were already tightened, stubbornly refusing to meet the man's gaze.

"You probably don't need any more of my advice, but I'll still give it to you." Hawke paused, letting out a soft exhale. "Don’t push away those that care about you. There may come a moment when you'll regret it.”

Tristan’s fingers stilled on the leather straps for a moment before resuming their work. His back straightened up defensively and he clenched his jaw. “Why would I do that?”

“You look the type.”

Tristan turned to find dark, considering eyes regarding him thoughtfully. The concern in his gaze made his gut twist uneasily, and he looked away, pretending to be absorbed in securing the straps on Almond’s bridle. “I’ll… be sure to keep that in mind.” When he said nothing more, Hawke nodded sharply before walking away. His footsteps stopped short when Tristan spoke again. “Hawke.” The sound of gravel under his boots as the other man turned back, then silence. "Thank you."

“Nothing to thank me for,” Hawke said simply. “Just stating the obvious.”

“Yes. Of course. Yet, even so… Thank you.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Hawke inclined his head. He disappeared behind a stall, only to come out a moment later, guiding his tall, dark stallion into the pelting rain outside. Tristan followed soon after, gently tugging Almond’s reins. The others were waiting for him already, mounting their horses. Tristan drew the hood of his woollen cloak over his head as he hauled himself up on his saddle.

“Right,” he said, glancing at his companions. “Time to get back to Skyhold.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you, Inquisitor.”

Tristan turned to look at Hawke, startled by his own surprise at the man’s words. He hadn’t really given it much thought, yet now he realised that he had actually expected Hawke to return with them to Skyhold. Why he would ever expect that, he could never know. His departure made their earlier conversation ring in an entirely different manner.

“I have… pressing business to attend to,” Hawke continued, noticing his silence, and Tristan nodded knowingly. “I will be informing Varric of my location whenever I have the chance. As soon as I have more information regarding the Grey Wardens, I’ll let you know.”

“Very well,” Tristan said. He gazed into the distance, at the grey horizon that stretched over the mountains. “I guess this is farewell, then.”

“Only until we meet again.” Hawke smiled his usual wide smile, but there was warmth in it now, and it was directed at him. It became even wider when he reached out, patting Varric on the shoulder as he sat on his saddle next to him. “I’m off, old pal. Take care. Keep your socks dry. Don’t get killed.”

Varric craned his neck to look up at him, returning his wide smile, though it felt a touch forced. Perhaps more than a touch. “I’ll try not to get killed. Though you know I can’t make any promises about footwear.”

The tall man laughed, giving Varric’s shoulder a small squeeze before grasping his reins again. He kicked his horse forward, giving them a sharp wave over his shoulder before disappearing around the bend of the road. They all stayed there for a long moment, the rain and wind whirling about them, the distant thunders and the crackling of the rift in the lake the only other sounds.

Tristan let out a soft sigh, urging Almond in the opposite direction. “We have a long way ahead of us,” he said flatly, eyes set on the path that stretched before them. “We shouldn’t linger.”

“Welcome back to Skyhold, Your Worship.”

Maighdin’s expression was stern and aloof as always when she greeted him, her back stiff when she bowed her head to him. Tristan nodded sharply in acknowledgement as he dismounted and gave Almond’s reins to a lanky stableboy. His gaze lingered on the boy only momentarily before he turned away. There were so many new faces in Skyhold these days, it was impossible to recognize them all, let alone remember their names.

He walked ahead of Maighdin across the now empty yard. The moonlight fell stark and grey on the dark stone walls of the keep, the hushed whispers of the guards on patrol on the battlements drifting with the wind. Everyone else had retired to their beds long before, it seemed. Tristan couldn’t wait to sink in a tub of hot water and wash the road off him, and then plunge in his soft feather bed himself. Travelling through the pouring rain and mud soaked roads was not enjoyable, to say the least. He had hoped he would return early enough to visit Dorian, perhaps even have some dinner and wine, spend some much needed time with him. Especially after the way things had been left between them before his departure for Crestwood...

Tristan’s lips tightened at the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. _Exclusive_. That was the word Dorian had used, and according to him, they weren’t it. Did that mean that… that he had been sleeping with others, all this while? Who could it be? Was it someone he knew? Had Tristan been so big a fool to think that Dorian would limit himself to him when he could have literally anybody he wanted? When he could be with someone better, stronger, more handsome, more clever, more… normal?

He shook his head to brush the thoughts away. This was no time to be thinking about all that. It was late, and he was tired, and he only needed some sleep. He could feel his leg muscles cramping from all those days on horseback as he climbed up the steps to the throne room. The guard that was outside his quarters was a tall and fair haired man, his pointy elf ears half hidden under a dusty blond mop of hair. He bowed eagerly to him, then stood at attention.

“Your Worship,” he said, knuckling his forehead.

Tristan gazed at him under furrowed brows. “Who are you?”

“M-mathras, my lord,” the elf said, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Tristan waved him at ease, then turned to Maighdin. “Where is Nhudem?”

“Change of guard, ser,” Maighdin replied. “He starts after the midnight bells have rung.”

So, Cullen had taken the liberty of increasing the number of his guards, having people follow him _and_ guard his quarters at all times. It seemed what Hawke had said was true. There were evidently lots of people that wanted his head, and his advisors knew that too. He wondered what Leliana and Cullen knew that perhaps he didn’t. Information that they may have kept from him on purpose. The way those two were headed, he would soon have guards in his bed, and the way _he_ was headed, he would be thankful for it, too.

Well. At least those guards he had could take breaks from handling his foul tempers. That should be a good thing, shouldn’t it?

He let out a soft sigh as he opened the door to his quarters, when Maighdin’s voice stopped him. “Lord Pavus is waiting for you upstairs, Your Worship.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up, and his heart fluttered with anticipation in his chest. Perhaps Dorian had missed him just as much as he had. Perhaps Tristan had misjudged him, as he was wont to do. He nodded sharply to Maighdin as he closed the door hurriedly behind him and hopped up the steps.

The dancing flames in the hearth suffused the large room in a soft, tremulous glow. A bottle of wine was set on the low table, two crystal glasses next to it. And sprawled on the large sofa was… he.

Dorian’s head was on the arm rest, eyes moving gently under closed lids in his sleep. The flames from the hearth painted the side of his face amber, shadows playing across features that seemed as though carved in marble. Black hair falling over his smooth forehead, immaculate even when uncombed. The laces of the violet silk shirt he was wearing had come slightly undone, and a swath of velvet bronze skin peeked from within the folds. He was perfect, and perfectly serene in his slumber, beautiful beyond compare, and Tristan simply stood there, gazing at him for what felt like an eternity.

Silently, on tip-toes, he approached Dorian’s sleeping form. He stirred when the cushion dipped under Tristan’s weight, dark eyelashes fluttering open to reveal a pair of eyes like polished silver gazing blearily at him.

“You’re here.” His voice came out croaked, and he cleared his throat, brushing the back of his hand over his lips.

Tristan smiled. “So are you.”

“Your guards let me in. Apparently, you’ve ordered them to let me enter whether you’re in or not.”

“I have.”

Dorian huffed a soft laugh. “I must have fallen asleep. Way to spoil the dramatic welcome I had prepared for you,” he said as he made to sit up, but Tristan stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, brushing a stray lock away from his forehead. “You needed the rest.”

A soft smile curled Dorian’s lips, and his eyes glided gently over his features. There was so much warmth in his gaze, that Tristan’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked away, nodding at the decanter and the glasses. “What’s all that?”

“Consider it my way of making it up to you after letting you trudge all those days in that rainy bog on your own.” He reached out to him, a long finger running down the side of his face. “It must have been terribly dull without me,” he whispered teasingly, but Tristan thought he heard a tinge of regret in his voice.

“Oh, it was alright,” Tristan replied in a non-chalant tone. “I daresay Varric did his best to fill in for you.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Ha! The nonsense you speak. As if Varric could ever stand as a substitute for my dashing presence.”

Tristan laughed softly as he leaned forward, brushing his nose over his. “No one ever could.”

Dorian’s mouth opened eagerly, pulling him in, the taste of red wine lingering on his tongue as it glided over his own. Warmth spread all over his body, seeping into tired limbs and knotted muscles, a need so intense it turned into a dull ache. He had missed the feel of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin, the softness of his hands as they threaded through his hair. He had tried his best not to think about him the time they were apart, kept the images away, carefully out of reach, yet now the sensations hit him all at once, like a storm. He returned Dorian’s passionate kisses, bringing up no resistance as long, beringed fingers started working the latches of his leather armour open.

“I missed you so much,” Tristan blurted out in a breathless whisper.

Dorian chuckled against his lips, pulling the top of his armour free. “I can’t blame you. I’d miss me too, if I were you.”

Tristan edged back to frown at him. “I mean it.”

“So do I. My company is irreplaceable. Oh, stop giving me that look, will you?” he said when Tristan’s frown deepened. Then, he rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of mock exasperation, lips pursing slightly. “Fine. I may have missed you, too. A little.”

“Just a little?”

Dorian’s expression softened. “Perhaps a bit more than that.” His fingers tangled in the fabric of his cotton undershirt, pulling gently. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Tristan’s smile was wide and teasing when he kicked his boots off and slid between Dorian’s legs. “Can’t make any promises.” The couch was far too narrow for the both of them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about being comfortable, not when Dorian sighed underneath him, rolling his hips over his, igniting the flame that quivered inside him.

Tristan groaned, closing his teeth over Dorian’s bottom lip. They rocked against each other until the final latch on Tristan’s armour popped open. He paused for a breath, sitting up to slide it off his shoulders and throw it carelessly on the floor beside them.

Dorian’s palms slid underneath his cotton undershirt to caress his stomach, silver eyes blazing under heavy eyelids. “Come back here,” he rasped, hooking two fingers under the waistband of his breeches to pull him back to him. Tristan tilted his head up when Dorian planted soft kisses along his jawline and down to his neck, breathing deeply.

“You stink,” he announced.

Tristan pulled back a hair to look at him, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. “Do I?”

“Oh, yes. You smell of sweat, dirt, and just a hint of cheap whisky. So very manly.” He took another deep breath, running his tongue over the tendons of his throat. “I love it.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, a shiver running down his spine with the feel of Dorian’s wet tongue on his skin. “I should bathe less often, then.”

“Don’t push it.”

Tristan kissed lips curved in a smirk as he slithered a hand underneath Dorian’s silk shirt, the slippery fabric retreating easily. His heart pounded in his ears as his fingertips ran over warm skin, soft and supple over taut muscles. The shirt slipped easily over Dorian’s head, messing his hair up only slightly before falling to the wooden floor with a hiss.

The moan that left Dorian’s lips when Tristan’s mouth slid to his neck was low and breathy and just a touch pleading, sliding down his spine like warmed, spiced honey. A shiver ran through him as he brushed his tongue over a stiff nipple and inhaled the distinct scent of Dorian’s skin. Heady, deep, intoxicating; an earthy sweetness that lingered at the back of his throat when he breathed.

“Cardamom,” he whispered softly.

“I beg pardon?”

Tristan raised his gaze to see Dorian looking at him curiously. He hummed as he trailed lower, following the dip under his ribs. “You smell like toasted cardamom,” he said. “And oakmoss, and sandalwood… and is that star anise?”

Dorian laughed, but it was a tad huskier than normal. “It wouldn’t do if I gave out all my secrets, would it?”

Instead of responding, Tristan’s fingers slid underneath the waistband of his breeches, drawing out a gasp from Dorian as he curled his palm over his hardened length. “There’s one secret I’m interested in in particular.”

With a sharp tug, he pulled down his breeches, until Dorian was naked underneath him. He couldn’t help but take a moment to look at him as he lay before him. Relaxed, yielding, palpable, within reach. Within _his_ reach. He let his gaze roam over the smooth stomach and the long, sculpted arms; the deep flush that steadily crept up his cheeks, like a glorious sunrise; the glistening lips and the heavy lids. Maker, but he was the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

“Are you just going to keep staring at me, or are you planning on doing something to me? I’d rather you did the latter,” he said peevishly, but the breathiness in his voice made Tristan smile. His mouthy lover.

He leaned down between his legs, planting an agonizingly slow trail of kisses on his thigh before closing his lips over his hardness, taking him in as deep as he could. A gasp broke free from Dorian’s lips and his hips bucked forward, his fingers threading in Tristan’s hair. Tristan lifted his eyes to watch him as his mouth worked up and down, slowly, almost reverentially, tongue sliding over the ridges of his cock. Dorian was watching him too, his breath coming short and fast, lips slightly parted. The firelight was doing wondrous things to his body; making shadows pool in the dip of his collarbone, gather in the contours of his chest and his navel, like rivulets flowing over polished stones. He was warmth and fire and tenderness, all smooth planes and soft angles, and Tristan wanted him. All of him.

Dorian’s hold on his hair tightened when Tristan took him in deeper, the tip of his cock reaching the back of his throat, his tongue moving in broad strokes. The moan that left him was low and throaty when his cock twitched with his climax, and Tristan held him fast as he greedily swallowed every drop.

He had barely taken a breath before Dorian pulled him up impatiently, tasting himself on Tristan’s tongue. Tristan hovered over him, palms running down his exquisite body as they kissed fervently, all tongues and lips and teeth.

“Filthy clothes come off now,” Dorian murmured and pushed him playfully away. Tristan got up with a groan and hurriedly tugged at the hem of his undershirt, when Dorian stopped him with a raised finger. “Slowly.”

Tristan laughed at the teasing glint in his silver eyes, sleepy with the afterglow. Dorian propped himself up on his elbow, watching him. “You’re very demanding, you know.”

“I know. It’s one of my characteristic traits.” Dorian quirked a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him, and the sight of it made a fever swell in Tristan’s chest. He wanted nothing more than to pounce on him and get lost in his welcoming warmth, but he was determined to give him a show. He pulled his shirt off slowly, purposefully flexing his muscles, biting back a smile at the spark in Dorian’s eyes. Next came the laces of his breeches. He pulled at them leisurely, taking his time working each one free, until Dorian huffed impatiently.

“Oh, just take it off and get over here, you tease,” he said, crawling to him and hooking his fingers over Tristan’s waistband, pulling them down, letting his hardness spring free. Tristan couldn’t help a moan when Dorian’s long fingers curled around his length. A small smile curled his full lips when his tongue darted out to lick the bead of moisture that had gathered at the tip, then his mouth wrapped around him in a wet and warm embrace. Tristan threaded his fingers in his luscious hair, shivering as he was taken in deeper, the velvet heat of Dorian’s mouth chasing away every other thought in his mind.

There was something about the sight of Dorian on his knees before him, watching him intently as his lips were wrapped around his cock, that made his blood course that much more swiftly through his veins. He didn’t bring up any resistance when Dorian pulled him down on the sofa, kneeling between his legs. His mouth worked him steadily, harder, faster. He brought his long fingers up to caress him alongside his tongue, until it was a tangle of lips and fingers and tongue, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

The look in Dorian’s eyes was feral and indecent when he slid a long and slick finger inside him. Tristan bit back a moan at the unexpected pressure, pleasure and lust building inside him, spreading like wildfire.

He reached down to cup the back of Dorian’s neck, drawing him up, seeking his hot and velvet mouth. The flat of Dorian’s tongue brushed over his lips as he eased another finger, and Tristan gasped.

Dorian pulled back to look at him. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tristan breathed. “Yes, ah-”

Three. There were three fingers inside him, yet he wanted more. He kissed Dorian hungrily, moaning against his lips as his deft digits drove deeper.

“I want to feel you,” Dorian rasped. His breath was hot against the shell of his ear when he leaned closer to whisper, “I want to fuck you so hard you weep.”

Tristan nodded eagerly, licking his lips. “Yes. Please, yes.”

The soft feather mattress sank under their combined weight as Tristan lay on his stomach, Dorian hovering over him. His breath hitched when he felt Dorian’s cock brushing against his entrance, then came out in a soft hiss when the tip of his hardness slid inside him. Dorian leaned down, placing soothing kisses between his shoulder blades as he sank, inch by agonising inch, inside him.

“You feel so good,” Dorian whispered, burying his face in Tristan’s neck. “So warm, so wonderful…”

Tristan felt full. Unbearably full and uncomfortably stretched, but he dug his fingers deeper into the plush pillows, taking a deep breath. Soon, as they gently rocked together, the pressure gave way to pleasure, deep and slowly building. His moans were muffled by the pillow as Dorian thrust harder and faster, deeper, as deep as he could go, hitting that spot again and again. Dorian’s gasps and the garbled Tevene that crashed against Tristan's skin like waves made the already burning fire inside him unbearable.

The seconds stretched on languidly, seemingly endlessly, as Dorian fucked him hard. Everything was him; he was on him, behind him, around him, inside him, his scent and the feel of his cock and the softness of his hands blocking out anything else. It felt odd, losing himself into someone else like this, not being in control for once. It was with some surprise that Tristan realised that it felt… good.

Dorian leaned forward over him, and Tristan twisted his head, searching for his lips. They kissed deeply, Dorian’s tongue brushing the roof of his mouth as he drove himself deeper still, faster, burrowing as much of his cock inside him as he could.

“Fasta vass,” he moaned, deep breaths expanding his ribs where they touched against his back. “ _Amatus_ -”

Tristan met him, thrust for thrust, his tongue twining with his, seeking more, more, more. “Yes,” he whispered. “Fuck, yes, yes-”

Dorian hooked an arm underneath him to stroke him firmly, thumb brushing over the weeping head. Blinding white light exploded behind Tristan’s eyelids, all the warmth and ecstasy and tension that raked his body and clouded his vision finding their release on Dorian’s curling fingers. Dorian followed him soon after, shuddering with his own climax, his guttural groan drowned against Tristan’s skin when he sank his teeth in his neck.

With the rapture of the moment easing away slowly, albeit steadily, Tristan was soon lulled into an unusual sort of calmness by the beating of Dorian’s heart against his back. He felt warm, content, sated. Dorian’s weight on him was comforting, his breath on the back of his neck even more so. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this in the presence of another person. He couldn’t even rightly remember how long it had been since he had slept with someone before Dorian - the last few years of his life before the Inquisition seeming like a dark, unending, agonising dream. He had probably managed to sleep with a few people when nigh on black out drunk, not that he would be able to recount much now. He had felt empty, so empty back then, and those encounters had left him emptier still, and it hadn’t been long before he had written off any thoughts of companionship or affection or… or love. Was that what he was feeling now? Was that what he and Dorian had? Love?

His heart was suddenly gripped in a vice, and his breath felt constricted in his lungs, pinned as he was under Dorian’s body. He dug his palms in the mattress, gently shrugging Dorian off as he pushed himself up. Dorian eased himself off him with a sharp inhale, his palms lingering on Tristan’s hips before pulling away. Tristan rolled on his back with a sigh, resting his head upon his curled arm. He took a deep breath, stretched his legs. Stared at the ceiling.

Dorian shifted on his side to look at him. Soft fingertips glided down his chest, following the lines of his muscles, making the hairs on his body stand on end. Tristan hummed softly, closing his eyes. “That feels nice.”

Dorian exhaled a soft chuckle through his nose, smoothing his palm over Tristan’s stomach. He slithered closer to him, nuzzling his ear. “How does that feel?”

“Even better.” Tristan turned his head to him, their noses brushing. Dorian’s lips parted on a sigh, his warm tongue darting out to explore the contours of Tristan’s mouth, as it had done so many times before. Tristan kissed him back, palm gently running over his sides. There, in the half dark, in the comfortable silence, it felt like nothing else existed beyond them. It was just them, and the warmth of their bodies as their limbs tangled once more, and the sounds of their breaths when they met and mingled.

Even in that moment, though, doused in the golden light of the afterglow, Tristan couldn’t help the thoughts that slithered in, cold and invasive; was it really just _them_? Had it ever been? Did Dorian feel the same way, or was Tristan simply chasing an impossible dream, one that he stretched bodily to grasp yet was never meant to have?

The bitterness that he had been trying all those days to suppress rose to the surface in a wave, choking him. He pulled away, untangling himself from Dorian’s embrace. He lay on his back again, resuming his thorough examination of the high ceiling of his quarters. The moonlight slithering through the tall windows played along its surface, illuminating the swirls and knots in the grain of the wooden beams.

Dorian’s gaze on him felt as keen and sharp as a metal object piercing his skin. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Tristan gave a sharp nod, eyes still fixed above them. Dorian stared at him for a long moment before clearing his throat. “That’s an excellent ceiling you have here. Very sturdy. Fascinating, really. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

“Mm-hm.”

Another long stretch of minutes where no one spoke. A soft click of his tongue, an exasperated huff and Dorian sat up to glare at him. “Will you tell me what is wrong, or do I need to pry it out of you by force?”

Tristan glanced at him, throat constricting painfully before he looked away again, pursing his lips. “There’s nothing wrong," he said, his tone sharper and far more curt than he intended. "I’m just tired. I’ve been travelling for days.”

Dorian gazed at him for a moment longer, silence stretching heavy between them. “Perhaps I should let you rest, then," he whispered. "It’s late as it is.” He waited for a breath. Tristan never answered.

With slow, unhurried movements, Dorian rolled out of bed. Tristan’s eyes followed him as he padded across the room, around the couch where he had left his clothes. He was retrieving his shirt from the floor, when panic, deep and visceral, rose in Tristan’s chest.

“Dorian, wait.” Sterling grey eyes snapped to him, blazing with anger. Tristan swallowed thickly, sitting up on the mattress. “Please stay.”

Dorian’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, then crossed his arms before his chest. “Whatever for? You seem quite over my presence already. We haven’t even been together for an hour and already you’re making it very clear that I am not wanted here. I think…” He paused for a moment, looking away. “I think it’s best if we just let things be.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Dorian gazed sadly at him, the distance between them suddenly seeming wide enough to engulf them both. “It means that I’m not certain whether this can work,” he whispered.

Cold tendrils slithered through Tristan’s stomach, freezing him to the core. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’m afraid I do.” Dorian’s eyes were soft, gleaming eerily in the waning light. He seemed so tired all of a sudden, bone weary, but his movements when he pulled his trousers on were steady and precise. Tristan watched him motionless, numb, sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress, like a stone sinking in dark waters. Drowning. He should just let him go, he knew. It would probably be for the best. For both of them. It wasn’t like whatever they had could possibly last. Everything fell apart in the end, and this was no exception. Better to end it then, while it was still early. While there was still time.

_Don’t push away those who care about you. There may come a moment when you’ll regret it._

Hawke’s words echoed in his mind, jolting him awake like a cold shower. Dorian was halfway to the stair landing when Tristan stood up abruptly. “Don't go,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He raked a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. "Please, just… wait. I-” He paused, worrying his bottom lip. “I need to talk to you.”

Dorian turned to glance at him over his shoulder. Tristan’s hands opened and closed at his sides as he tried to arrange his thoughts. His face felt hot like a pan on the stove. “The other day, when you were here... Before I left for Crestwood. You said that we- that I, uh... That you- we aren’t-”

The flush in his cheeks grew warmer and warmer as Dorian’s frown grew ever more perplexed. Tristan let out a sharp exhale, dragging his palm over his face. “Perhaps I should start over.”

Dorian tilted his head to the side. “Yes, I think you should. You’re just making noises at this point.”

Tristan shifted uncomfortably on his feet for a moment before gingerly walking towards him, closing the distance between them as he came to stand before him. He cleared his throat and looked up into his eyes, trying to appear as composed as he could, despite the fact that he was stark naked. “Before I left for Crestwood, you said that we… that we aren’t exclusive. That we’ve had our fun, and we are both free to do whatever we want, with whomever we want. That was the way you put it, wasn’t it?” Dorian’s lips tightened as he gave him a slow nod. Tristan took a breath to steel himself. “Is that what you want?”

“Is that what _you_ want?”

 _No._ “I…” Tristan looked away, clenching his jaw. The evening cold slithering through the windows was making his skin prickle, and he hugged himself tightly. “I don’t know.”

He heard Dorian inhale sharply, drawing himself up. Tristan glanced at him just in time to see him squeezing his eyes shut. “Then what else is there for us to say?” he snapped. He looked angry, yet his voice sounded at the edge of breaking. He turned to leave again, when Tristan reached out, catching his arm.

“I don’t know,” Tristan started, a whisper so low he could barely hear it himself, “how to be with someone.”

Dorian brows were furrowed in confusion when he turned his body to face him. Tristan held on to his arm with both hands, as if afraid he would float away if he let him go. For a moment, it felt like his entire life was whirling in his mind, a torrent of tangled images and thoughts that he struggled to put to words. He took a deep breath, willing his voice to stay level. “I’ve been on my own for too long. I don’t know what it’s like, having someone so close to me. After my sister died, I… I could barely live with myself. I thought I didn’t deserve to be happy, not when Tilly wasn’t around anymore. I wasn’t even sure if I deserved to be alive. Bloody hell, some days I still don’t.” He paused, blinking as his eyes burned like coals under his lids. His heart was beating so hard he could feel his pulse in his throat, but he made himself hold Dorian’s gaze. “I vowed that I’d never let anyone get too close. That I’d never let myself be happy, or in love. And I had succeeded in that, until… I met you.”

Dorian moved closer to him, and Tristan's hold on his arm tightened ever so slightly. “I don’t know what it is. About you. About us. But I feel like… Fuck, I’m drawn to you. I can’t explain it. I want to be close to you. I’ve tried to fight it. You know that better than anyone. Yet I always come back to you.” His thumb brushed over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the pulse beating underneath it. "I want you, Dorian. I don’t want anybody else. Void take me, it’s never even crossed my mind. Not since the moment I saw you. I don't know how to be or how to act around you, but I still want to be with you. More than I’ve wanted anything before.”

He reached out, fingers hovering only a breath away from Dorian’s cheek, when a sharp pang of panic made him draw his hand back. “I-I can’t expect you to want the same things I do. If you want to sleep with others, then… Then I can’t stop you. I wouldn’t even dream of it. And, let’s be honest, you’d probably be better off with somebody else. I know that this, all of this, the Inquisition, my predicament-” He stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, opened them again. He exhaled slowly, swallowing through the knot in his throat. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Least of all you. I want you to… I want you to have everything. Maker knows you deserve it. I’m not sure if I could even give you half of that.” He let out a quiet, defeated laugh.“Selfish, isn’t it? I don’t know if I can ever make you happy, yet I want to be with you all the same.”

Tristan lifted his eyes to Dorian’s once more, searching his face. Dorian was still watching him carefully, his expression unreadable in the shifting light of the fire. He hadn’t uttered a word, simply listening as Tristan talked on and on. Tension coiled in his gut like a snake, and he bit the inside of his lip down hard. “I understand if you think me a fool. I would too,” he mumbled. He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes burning. He let Dorian's arm go, taking a step back.“Let’s- let’s just forget everything, alright? I’m probably not making any sense. I just- I’ll…”

Dorian’s fingers closed about his wrist, pulling him close. He leaned forward, his velvet lips finding Tristan’s, drawing him in like a magnet. Relief washed over him in waves, enough to make his head swim. Tristan kissed him back eagerly, savouring the sweetness of his mouth, breathing in the scent of him, his fingers tangling in his shirt as he held him. He clung to him, as though he were a piece of driftwood floating on stormy seas. His only chance at keeping his head above water.

Dorian pressed their foreheads together, taking a deep breath. “I want to be with you, too.”

“Y-you do?”

Dorian nodded, a soft smile curling his lips. “Of course I do, you idiot. Couldn’t you tell?”

Tristan’s heart fluttered in his chest with the gentleness in his voice, but he shot him a sullen frown. “Couldn’t you have said so before I spilled my guts?”

“And stop you when you were finally talking for once? Perish the thought.” He held him close, fingers sinking in his hair, holding, pulling. "I didn't really intend to leave, you know. Or if I did, I'd probably come back. If only to kick some sense back into you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes." He let out a soft sigh. "I've told you before that I can't stay mad at you for very long. You have that effect on me."

“Oh.” Tristan laughed weakly, rubbing the dampness from the corners of his eyes. “Good,” he breathed. “That’s good. I hope.”

“It is good.” Dorian’s thumb ran in a smooth semicircle over Tristan’s cheek, brushing a stray tear away. “It is for me. You are the one that I want, _amatus_. You will have to do a great deal to change my mind about that. I...” He paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. There was a tinge of sorrow in his eyes when they met his own. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Tristan couldn’t describe what it was he felt when Dorian’s gaze swept over his features, sadness mingled with care and so much tenderness. Even if he could find the words, he didn’t think he had any strength left to breathe them into being. He wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist, pulling him flush against him, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Dorian hugged him tightly, pressing kisses on the top of his head, his temples, his cheeks, the shell of his ear.

“Now,” Dorian whispered after what felt like an age and a blink of an eye, “let’s get the stench of horse and dirt off you, shall we? It’s quite overpowering.”

Tristan hummed with amusement as he pulled him towards the bed again, deft fingers tugging at his shirt. “Not just yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys will be the death of me, I swear. 
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! :)
> 
> P.S. Are y' all as sad about Aedan leaving as I am? ;w;


	26. To Have and To Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some Orlesian (i.e. French) in this chapter. Translation will be in the notes at the end :)

“Lavender and lemon blossoms. Interesting.”

Tristan lifted his head from the edge of the tub where it had been resting and eyed Dorian questioningly. “What?”

“The soap you use,” he replied. His back was pressed against Tristan’s chest, his voice vibrating through him when he spoke. Low and smooth, making the water itself ripple. “I could always detect the lavender, and I knew there must be some sort of citrus in there, but I could never quite place it.” He reached out for the soap bar, bringing up to his nose to smell it again. “Simple. Unsophisticated. A touch mundane, perhaps. It suits you quite well. I approve.”

Tristan laughed softly at his teasing tone. “I’m glad you find my unoriginality appealing.”

“ _Amusing_ , amatus. I think the word you’re looking for is _amusing_. I guess there is some beauty in simplicity, but let’s not overdo it, yes? Next thing you know, you’ll be washing with the ash soap they use in the kitchens.”

“That might not be such a bad idea. I’ve heard it takes the grime right off. What? It’s true!” He laughed at Dorian’s horrified expression, leaning forward to nuzzle his ear. “You don’t have to worry about that. I wouldn’t let you walk about with a man that smells like a well scrubbed kitchen pot.”

“Good,” Dorian chuckled, leaning into his touch. “I almost feared you were being serious. One can never know with you Southerners.”

Fingers skimming over the surface of the warm, soapy water, a smile still lingering at the edges of his lips, Tristan let the weariness and tension of the last few days bleed out of his limbs. The fire in the hearth crackled softly and doused the room in a warm glow, the only other light coming from the bright orange glyph Dorian had cast on the bottom of the copper tug to keep the water warm.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

“Hmm?”

Dorian’s eyes were closed, his head resting on Tristan’s shoulder. Tristan buried his nose in his hair, breathing deeply. “I find you fascinating.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Tristan smiled at the soft hum that sounded at the back of Dorian’s throat. “How do you maintain the glyph? Are you channeling now?”

“Just a little. This is a relatively small one, so it only requires a trickle of magic to sustain it.”

“And you can do it just like that? With your eyes closed?”

Dorian’s smile widened. “You’d be surprised how many things I can do with my eyes closed.”

He was relaxed, almost melting in Tristan’s arms, his features soft, his breaths even and smooth despite the low chuckle that rumbled in his chest. Tristan let his eyes roam over the curves and planes of his body, sprawled as it was before him, submerged in the warm, cloudy water. He was… exquisite. Sublime. God-like. _Real_. He was real, tangible, there. Beautiful and daring, sharp-witted and eloquent, a shining example of all the qualities the ideal man should possess, those that philosophers and thinkers had debated on for centuries. Tristan wondered for a moment exactly what Dorian had seen in him. He had been average in most of his endeavours on the best of days, let alone now, that every new day was an opportunity for all his shortcomings to be exhibited for all the world to see. Most people, he was sure, saw him just a step away from failure.

Yet, with Dorian he never felt like a failure. He never felt less, or not quite good enough, or broken. He felt whole. It felt odd.

He idly traced a line with his index finger from the perfect half moons of Dorian’s manicured nails where they rested on his knee, all the way up to his forearm, past the angle of his elbow, up his bicep. His skin glowed copper in the golden light, and Dorian hummed softly when Tristan leaned forward and pressed a feather-light kiss upon the curve of his shapely shoulder.

That was when he saw it; a small, barely noticeable scar on his arm, a darker patch on the otherwise unblemished expanse of skin. His own skin was riddled with scars, large and small, smooth and ragged, and it had become a habit for Dorian to trace his long fingers over them, asking for the stories behind them. A habit Tristan had come to look forward to, he had noticed.

“How did you get this?” he asked him, examining the small mark.

Dorian reluctantly opened his eyes to glance at it, then closed them again. “A proper gentleman never reveals his secrets.”

“Who said anything about propriety?” Tristan asked teasingly, to which Dorian scoffed.

“You’ve got me there.” He let out a soft sigh. “I’m afraid it’s not as grizzly and thrilling a story as yours tend to be. I got it when I was thirteen, while I was still in the Circle of Trevis.”

“You’ve never told me about your time in the Circle.”

“ _Circles_. I did change a few. Besides, what is there to say? I was incredible. Everyone loved me. My professors revered me and waxed poetic about my abilities. If they could, they would have carved my likeness in marble and set it atop the entrance of the University of Minrathous, I’m sure.”

“Right. Of course. I should have guessed.” Tristan huffed a quiet laugh at Dorian’s sarcastic tone. “Is that the way things work in Tevinter? Do they move you about in different Circles?”

“No. But it was the way things worked for me.” He let his head fall back against the crook of Tristan’s neck, peering at the snowy mountaintops beyond the wide windows. “I was admitted to the Circle of Carastes first, when I was nine. I got into a fight with another magister’s son, and I was expelled soon after. Then I moved to the Circle of Marothius, then Trevis, then Caimen Brea… I could go on. The very last one I went to, Marnas Pell, was by far the worst. No other Circle wanted a mage with such a terrible track record, as you can imagine. I didn’t even last a month.”

Tristan’s heart clenched with the resignation in his voice. Pain, deep, visceral, seared him to his core. Was that what Dorian’s childhood had been like? Kicked about from Circle to Circle, never lingering, never growing roots, never having friends? He let out a slow exhale through his nose, trying to keep his voice level. “Did you get into fights a lot?”

“I was admitted in the Circle very young, and progressed very quickly. I was usually the most competent in my year and beyond. There were many that didn’t appreciate this.”

“Who were they?”

“Older students. Some apprentices. They didn’t like that I moved ahead so quickly, my powers and knowledge surpassing theirs by a wide margin. Some were vocal about it. The one that gave me this scar was particularly loud about his displeasure.”

Tristan frowned. “Did he bully you?”

“Me? Bullied? On the contrary. He challenged me to a duel. I beat him quite easily, but not before he managed a gash on my shoulder.” He brushed his fingertips over the small scar. “It was the first time I had attempted healing magic on myself, and it would prove to be the last. I only got this small scar; the burn scar on my opponent’s face is still visible to this day.”

“How old was that boy?”

“Seventeen.”

“ _Seventeen_? Blight,” Tristan breathed. “And they expelled you instead of him?

“Yes, well,” Dorian said with a bored wave, “I was the one with the terrible reputation, you see. He was the son of a magister, a powerful one at that. I had become something of a pariah at this point. He didn’t hesitate to call me that to my face, either.”

Tristan’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palm. Anger was bubbling inside him, thick and hot enough to choke him. He wrapped his arms around Dorian, pulling him close, as if that would be enough to shield him from the world. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” he whispered. “Never again.”

Dorian let out a dismissive harrumph. “This isn’t always up to you, amatus.”

“I’ll make sure that it is.” He reached out, threading his fingers through his where they lay on his knee. “I would let the whole of Thedas burn if anyone so much as thought of touching you.”

“Now, this is either incredibly romantic of you, or incredibly insane.”

“What if it’s both?”

Dorian paused for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “Yes. That sounds about right.”

Tristan huffed in amusement, and Dorian lips widened in a fond smile as he rested his forehead against the side of Tristan’s face. A long moment of silence passed before Dorian spoke again. “Did you ever get into fights when you were younger?”

Tristan paused for a moment in thought. “No. Not when I was that young. Except for Tilly, there weren’t that many children my age when I was growing up. I did have a few friends… but I didn’t see them quite as often. Other than during those awful banquets my mother used to drag me to.”

“How did you spend your time, then?”

“When I wasn’t fencing or riding, I would go to the beach with Tilly, or read books, or… I guess I tried to study, too, occasionally.”

“You must have been a stellar student.”

“Why is that?”

“You are very bright, amatus. Not to mention surprisingly well read. For a Southerner at least.”

An odd sense of pride swelled in Tristan's chest with the earnestness in Dorian’s voice. Why did it make him feel giddy that Dorian thought him bright? He shook his head, scoffing. “My tutors would disagree with you. They were never particularly pleased with my abilities. I didn’t have an affinity for history, or maths, or science. I found them incredibly boring, and my tutors found me very dull indeed, compared to my sister. She was the stellar student, not I. They all loved her. Me, not so much. A maths tutor once called me “terribly obstreperous and frightfully obtuse” because I’d refused to solve an equation.”

“He called you that?” Dorian turned his head slightly to look at him, incredulity in his gaze. “What did you do?”

“I pretended not to care, but Tilly was very mad. Oh, she was fuming. She told Nelly, our housekeeper, and Nelly told our mother. The tutor was dismissed the next day.”

“Good. I would have boxed his ears if I had him right here.” Dorian’s furrowed brow relaxed, his thumb brushing over Tristan’s palm. “Were there no subjects that you did enjoy?”

“I was fond of my Orlesian tutor. Madame Clemence. A lovely woman. When she’d first arrived, she had tried to teach me Orlesian the same way she did with my sister; grammar, syntax, rules…" He shook his head. " I didn’t take to that very well. The letters would dance before my eyes and my tongue got tied in knots. In the end, she gave up trying to teach me the rules. She’d noticed I was fond of poetry, and started bringing me books with Orlesian poems. We would go out in the garden when the days were good, and she would read them to me. Then, she would talk to me about them until I was able to reply back.”

“She sounds like a fascinating woman.”

“She was. I would probably have hated Orlesian too if it weren’t for her.”

Dorian huffed, but Tristan could see the smile painted just at the edges of his lips. “That would be such a pity. Your Orlesian is quite irresistible. I could listen to you talk for days.”

“You could?” Tristan smiled softly. He brushed his cheek over Dorian’s ear, tracing its contours with his lips. “ _J’ai regardé devant moi, dans la foule je t’ai vue, parmi les blés je t’ai vue, sous un arbre je t’ai vue, au bout de tous mes voyages, au fond de tous mes tourments, au tournant de tous les rires, sortant de l’eau et du feu, l’été l’hiver je t’ai vue, dans ma maison je t’ai vue, entre mes bras je t’ai vue, dans mes rêves je t’ai vue…_ ” He tightened his arms around him, sliding his mouth to his. “ _Je ne te quitterai plus._ ”

Dorian hummed against his lips. “I think I caught a few words of that.”

“I hope you did.” Tristan ran his thumb over his cheek. “I meant them.”

Time stretched on languidly while they lay in the water, warm like a wet embrace, their lips gliding in soft, velvet kisses. The moon hung close to the eastern edge of the night sky, thin like a nail, silver against a velvet blue canopy. They kissed and kissed… until a soft rumbling sound echoed through the silence.

Dorian edged back to gaze at him. “Was that your stomach?”

Tristan felt heat travelling up to the tips of his ears. “I, uh… yes?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I think… this morning?”

Dorian’s eyes widened in their sockets, and he pushed himself up and away from him. He was dripping wet, water running in rivulets down his body and pooling around his feet when he stepped out of the tub. He held out a hand to Tristan, who simply gaped at him.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“W-where are we going?”

“You need to eat. The way you’re going, you’re going to be falling flat on your face any day now. Come,” he said, his fingers curling, beckoning, “I’m taking you to dinner.”

Tristan huffed a laugh as he rose to his feet, letting Dorian help him out and pat him dry with a soft cotton towel. There was something in that gesture, the familiarity, the sheer tenderness and care of it, gentle touches with no ulterior motive or desire. The simple act of caring for a loved one, and taking joy in the shared moment.

Tristan caught Dorian’s hand after they had both put their clothes on, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “So,” he said softly, “what are we having tonight?”

Dorian smirked playfully. “Whatever is left in the kitchens, of course. Beggars can’t well be choosers at this hour. Let’s pray it’s something edible and not that meat pie they keep serving at the tavern. Or, Maker forbid, that stew.”

Tristan shuddered at the thought of the thick, floury crust, or those tasteless stews that felt like boiled mush on his tongue. “I’d happily go another day without food if it meant not eating that foul stuff.”

“No. No, you would not. Not while I’m here. Now,” Dorian said, showing him towards the door, “I want to see that lovely derriere marching down those stairs and to the wonderful midnight feast we’ll no doubt be having very soon.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, yet couldn’t help the wide smile that blossomed on his face. He did as he was told, walking out of the quarters, Dorian in tow. Maighdin mumbled a quiet “Your Worship” when he informed her he would be going to the kitchens with Dorian. Alone.

“She’s quite nice, that girl,” Dorian said to him after they were well out of earshot. “Kinder than she looks. She actually came by the library a couple times while you were gone to ask me if I needed anything. I joked about wanting caramel apple slices to nibble on with the tea I was drinking at the time, and she brought me some the next day.”

“Did she?” Tristan tried to combine the image of stern-faced Maighdin and caramel apples. No, it didn’t quite fit. “Why would she do that? That’s hardly her job.”

“She knows we're seeing each other. Perhaps she feels the need to check up on me simply because I'm associated with you. She does seem very diligent. Cullen has chosen your guards well.”

Tristan’s brows furrowed as he walked on. “Yes, he has. I wish they weren’t needed, yet I’m happy with the people he has chosen anyway.”

Dorian shrugged, his steps falling almost at the same time as his. “You can’t change the way things are. Besides, they make you look intimidating. That’s what the leader of Inquisition should look like, isn’t it?”

“I think that was the idea from the start,” Tristan grumbled. “I’m glad that’s working, at the very least.”

“Not as intimidating as you look now, though,” Dorian said teasingly. “That scowl you wear could drive anyone in their right minds away.”

“How come it hasn’t driven you away?”

“I happen to be quite fond of it.” He turned to glance at him, head cocked to the side. “There’s this small line you get in the middle of your brows when you do it. It’s rather lovely.”

Tristan laughed quietly under his breath as they walked to the lower keep, a flush warming his cheeks despite the night chill. The narrow staircase before Josephine’s office was long and dark, seemingly unending as they descended to the bowels of the old keep. The damp there was far thicker than upstairs, permeating the stone walls and clinging to the dampness than still lingered in Tristan’s strands. They walked along the corridors, illuminated only by the dancing light of torches, their footsteps echoing in the silence. The underground level was thoroughly empty at that hour, and Tristan found that he could breathe more easily now that it was just him and Dorian there. He had almost forgotten there were other people in the keep other than them, when they heard the shuffling of boots, hushed whispers, the sound of fabric brushing against fabric.

Dorian and he exchanged a quick glance before cautiously approaching. They hadn’t even taken a step before a slender female figure dashed past them. Tristan had just enough time to glimpse the black hair gathered in a long braid that flowed down her back, her grey washerwoman’s cotton dress rustling around her feet as she ducked around the corner.

A man followed soon after, but he didn’t flee down the corridor like the woman had. He stood before them, blinking, his dark eyes wide as realisation dawned on him.

“Y-your Worship,” Nhudem mumbled. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, then bowed before him, as if remembering himself. He was wearing his Inquisition armour, the golden eye on the breastplate catching the light of the torches as he moved.

“What are you doing here, Nhudem?”

The man paled visibly, fists clenched at his sides. “N-nothing. Your Worship. I-I was… was on my way t-to your quarters and I… I-” He stopped, bottom lip trembling. He looked ready to pass out.

Tristan’s frowned at him. “Who was that-”

His question was cut short when he felt Dorian’s elbow nudging his sides. He glanced at him, and saw the minute shake of his head, and the smirk that curled his lips before he reined it in. With a soft exhale through his nose, Tristan turned to Nhudem. “Maighdin should be expecting you upstairs to relieve her of her duty. You are late as it is.”

Nhudem bowed eagerly again, throat bobbing as he gulped. “Yes, Your Worship. Of course, Your Worship. By your leave, Your-” Tristan waved him off, and the man bowed once more before walking- or rather running away. 

“It seems your guard has found a lady friend,” Dorian said after Nhudem had disappeared down the corridor.

“Right.” Tristan sneaked a glance behind him, making sure there was no sign of the woman or Nhudem before resuming his march towards the kitchens. “Did you get a look at that woman?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“No. She was very fast. Why?”

Tristan worried his lip as he walked on. “I should tell Leliana.”

“For whatever reason would you do that?”

“They’re my guards, Dorian. I need to know who they associate with.” So far as he knew, Nhudem had been a widower for years. Leliana’s very thorough vetting had mentioned no other relationships, which meant that whatever had been going on between him and that washerwoman must have been fairly recent. Unless he was really good at hiding. Which was troublesome in and of itself. If Tristan had learned anything from having grown up around servants and guards is that they talked. _A lot_. His own guards would soon come to know more about him than his own advisors, if they didn’t already. He couldn’t afford to have them spilling that information during secret trysts in storerooms and dark corners.

It was odd, how much things had changed for him ever since the title of Inquisitor had been bestowed upon him. A few months before, Tristan himself would have clapped Nhudem on the back and never thought twice about the whole thing, but Inquisitor Trevelyan had entirely different considerations.

Dorian’s steps fell alongside his, his palm brushing against the small of his back. “You don’t have to be in control of everything all the time, amatus. Let your people have their fun. You know they deserve it.”

Tristan rubbed the back of his head, trying to shake off his unease. He took a deep breath, nodding. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“When am I not?” Dorian asked with a wink, placing a kiss on his temples. Tristan leaned into his touch, threading his fingers through his. It would do him some good after all to let go of the Inquisitorial mantle, he realised, if only for a little while.

Their steps echoed along the dark corridors, and the damp lessened more and more as they made their way towards the kitchens. The warmth from the fires that roared most of the day had seeped into the stone, hot to the touch even in the middle of the night. Tristan let his fingers trail along the ridges in the centuries-old bricks, relishing the silence, when he noticed a soft, eerie light coming from behind one of the many doors.

Without really thinking, he pushed it open. The smell of dust and old parchment reached his nostrils as soon as he took a step in.

“A library?” Dorian gasped, walking ahead of him. “An actual hidden library?” He immediately went over to the shelves, glancing at the book titles. His eyes grew wide, like a child in a sweet shop. “This is fascinating. Maker only knows what else is tucked away in this place.”

Tristan smiled at his lover’s enthusiasm, letting his gaze sweep over the many books on the shelves. Most of them were far too old for the letters on their backs to be legible. It surprised him how many things he still didn’t know about Skyhold- he had lived there for months, yet he kept finding new places every time he happened to wander aimlessly about. Not that he had been doing much of that lately. There was usually no moment to spare from his Inquisitorial duties, his days scheduled by Josephine to account for nigh on every single minute. They were filled with meetings, training, judgements -the list went on, seemingly endlessly- and by the time he finally got to meet Dorian at night all he had mind for was… well. When it came to Dorian, there were a few things he had mind for no matter his exhaustion or the time of day, but even they weren’t enough to sate him. Nothing could ever be enough.

“How’s your research going?” Tristan asked, his fingers brushing over the books’ hard leathery backs.

“Ah! I’d almost forgotten about that,” Dorian said, turning to him. “I think I’m on to something. Remember when I told you that I could tell that the Venatori glyphs looked familiar? As it turns out, they are.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up with interest. “Are they? You remembered where you’ve seen them?”

Dorian nodded enthusiastically. “I believe I’ve seen them before, in Minrathous. It was a very obscure piece of research, but I might be able to retrieve it. I’ve already written to Tilani. If she manages to locate the scroll again and send a copy of it to me, I may be able to find what the Venatori are trying to do. That should give us an advantage when we next encounter them…”

Tristan’s fingers strayed to the scar on his neck while Dorian spoke, where the Venatori blade had cut him so long before. Talk of them always made him uneasy. Thinking about how close he had been to dying at their hands was... unnerving. Had Solas not been there during that time in the Hinterlands to heal him… His lips tightened in a line as his guts twisted and turned. Knowing that he had only himself to blame was even worse. He had been so reckless back then, always dashing about, getting into fights he couldn’t possibly win. In many ways, it was as if he had been challenging his fate, pushing at its edges to see where it would snap. Wasn’t he still doing that, in a way? Wasn’t he testing his limits, day after day? How long before he actually met them? Even in his last encounter with those blighted Venatori, he had only been a hair away from getting burned to a crisp, and Dorian with him. He had almost died, and still he hadn’t been able to rescue but a single person. There was so much at stake, people’s lives hanging in the balance, while he teetered. While he stood, as a symbol of hope, even though he had very little. And how much blood had been shed, so that he may stand there? How much more before his task was done? Before-

“Amatus.”

Tristan blinked. He hadn’t even realised he had stopped listening, lost in his own thoughts. Dorian was holding him by his shoulders, concern evident in his features. Tristan rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Forgive me. I got distracted. You were saying?”

Dorian shook his head. “It’s alright. We can talk about it tomorrow. Now is not the time.”

“No, I really want to-” Tristan cupped his cheeks. “I want to hear everything about it. This is important. You’re important.”

“So are you. My research can wait. This night is for us. You deserve some time away from it all.” Dorian smiled warmly at him. “Tonight, the only subjects we’re allowed to talk about are food, wine, and all the things we’ll be doing once we get back to your quarters.”

“Sleeping, that is?”

Dorian clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “You’re dreadfully dull and I hate you.”

“Mm-hmm. Why do I find that hard to believe?”

Dorian returned Tristan’s cheeky smile with one of his own, pulling away to return to the dusty shelves. Tristan let his eyes linger on Dorian’s back for a long moment, following his movements. He wouldn’t mind simply standing there and watch him for a day or three; watch as long fingers brushed over the books’ hard leather spines, careful, light as feathers; as he pulled the books out, caressing their covers before tilting them open; as his brow furrowed in concentration, as his eyes glided over the letters, as he brushed his knuckle over his chin in thought. As he sniffed in contempt, snapping the book shut and placing it back on the shelf.

“Senseless drivel. The amount of Chantry propaganda in this place is shocking. How they found themselves here, I’ll never know. One would have thought that a place this ancient would have some decent books, but apparently this is not the case.”

“A mystery for the ages,”Tristan murmured in agreement, glancing at an entire shelf of biographies of various Divines.

Dorian let yet another book snap shut and placed it on the shelf. “I challenge you to find one book in this place that isn’t about some Divine’s or saint’s life or some other similar nonsense.”

“A challenge?” Tristan asked, perking up. “I like the sound of that. What do I get if I win?”

Dorian smiled wickedly at him. “That will depend on what you find.”

Tristan thought for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I’ll bite.” He glanced at the tomes on the shelf closest to him, squinting as he tried to read their titles, faded with time and obscured by generous coatings of dust. He drew one out, brushing the grime away. “This one doesn’t look so bad.”He handed it to Dorian, who peered at the book cover and huffed in amusement.

“ _Assorted Poems and Elegies of the Storm Age_. Why am I not surprised?”

“It isn’t a Chantry book," Tristan said with a grin."What’s my prize?”

“Not so fast.” Dorian flipped the book open on a random page, peering at the writing. “ _Wilt thou love the Maker, as He thee? Then digest, My Soul, this wholesome meditation, How the Holy Maker In His Ascension, doth make his Temple in thy breast._ ” He glanced at Tristan, quirking a brow.

“Oh," Tristan breathed. "Right. I'd forgotten how much of the poetry from that Age is religious. Let me see.” He took the book from Dorian, flipping through the pages, scanning their contents until he found what he was looking for. A small poem, tucked away at the bottom of a sprawling epic about a Templar blessed by the spirit of Andraste. He handed the tome back to him, tapping the page lightly with his finger. “This one.”

Dorian shot him a lingering, apprehensive look as he accepted the book, lips parting slightly on a soft intake of breath. “ _He is equal with the Gods, that man, who sits across from me. Face to face, close enough to sip his voice’s sweetness, hear him laughing love’s low laughter. Fire in..._ ” He squinted at the page. “I can’t make out the rest. The letters are faded.”

Tristan moved closer, placing his palm on the small of his back, reciting from memory. “ _Fire, delicate fire in the flesh, with flowing rein, gliding swiftly through every vein. Though ’tis death to me, I cannot choose but look on him; But, at the sight, my senses fly, I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die; I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimmed with delirious draughts of warmest life. Ears resound with noise of distant thunder, eyes gaze on stars that fall forever into deep midnight._ ” He gazed expectantly at Dorian, watching the soft light of the room play across his features as he tilted his head to the side.

“‘Eyes gaze on stars that fall forever into deep midnight’,” Dorian said after a moment, drawing out the syllables. “Is that some very elaborate way to say that someone kicked the bucket?”

Tristan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re hopeless.” He plucked the book from his hands, placing it back on the shelf. “I still win, though.”

“Not a chance. A single poem does not a decent library make. I need more.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, biting back a smile as he continued searching through the shelves. He was never one to back down from a challenge. He was combing through a shelf filled with books of chants and psalms, when he saw a small, thin book, almost hidden behind the large tomes.

“Tristan de Lydes,” he whispered as he pulled it from the shelf and held it in his hands, heart thumping in his chest.

“Hmm?”

“ _Tristan de Lydes_. It’s an old Orlesian epic. I used to have a book just like this. I took it with me when I left home, but it was lost after the explosion at the Conclave.” Tristan turned to look at Dorian, who had drifted from his corner of the room to glance at what he was holding. “It was my father’s favourite. He was so fond of it, he named me after it. He used to read it to Tilly and me all the time when we were kids.”

Dorian’s touch was light and tentative, his hand brushing the base of his spine. “You never talk about your father.”

Hazy memories, half hidden and half forgotten drifted through his mind unbidden, like smoke gliding over a fogged mirror. Smell of old parchment and burning smoking leaf. Light blonde hair streaked with white, gathered at the nape of his neck. Ink stains on crisp white sleeve cuffs, long fingers constantly fidgeting with the stem of his ivory briars. Carvings of flowers and birds around the pipe bowl.

Grey morning light streaming in through the wide window panes of his study, dancing dust motes catching the sun, settling on the books and scrolls that covered every surface. The sound of his mother's laughter as his father recited a silly poem, their tea forgotten in their cups. One of the few memories he had of his mother laughing like this, bright and carefree.

Light blue eyes, almost translucent, that grew more and more weary as time went by, absent, red rimmed, unfocused. The silence that spread over the Trevelyan manor after they had closed for good.

He clenched his jaw, his hold on the book tightening. “He died when I was very young,” he whispered. “I don’t remember him well.” He swallowed past the knot in his throat as he lovingly brushed his fingers over the letters etched on its leather cover. “After he passed away, Tilly and I used to read it to each other before we went to sleep. She loved the sappy, romantic stuff, while I wanted to hear all about the sword fights. We would argue about which part to read for ages.” His lips curled in a soft, reminiscent smile. “She always got her way in the end.”

Dorian’s arms slithered around his waist, drawing him closer. He rested his chin upon his shoulder, the side of his face touching Tristan’s cheek. “You could read it to me, if you’d like.”

Tristan huffed quietly. “I thought you hated poetry.”

“Not when you read it.”

The tenderness in his voice made Tristan’s heart swell, pushing away the shadows, like a shining globe made of pure starlight. He leaned against him, the warmth of Dorian’s chest soothing and comforting as it seeped through his clothes. They stayed like that for a long while, simply touching, simply holding, speaking little, perhaps not at all. The companionable silence, the presence of someone that cared for him, and that he cared for in return.

He could get used to this, he thought.

Tristan swirled the wine in his cup, bringing it up to his nose to inhale the rich blend of grapes, berries and honeysuckle. He tipped it over his lips, letting the dry red roll over his tongue, savouring the taste. “This is exquisite. 9:32 was an excellent year for Antivan wines. This one may actually surpass that Rowan Rose we found in the Hinterlands that one time.”

Dorian blinked at him, incredulous. “You must be joking. Rowan Rose is one of the most prized wines in Thedas. Only second best to Aggregio Pavalli. Antiva can never hope to challenge Tevinter in wine making.”

“Different years yield different wines. The one we found was from 9:26, and it had been a relatively poor year for strawberry grapes all over Tevinter, what with that pest outbreak. It was still good, but I dare say this one here is better.”

Dorian harrumphed, still unconvinced as he took another sip. “You Marchers wouldn’t know good wine if it hit you on the head with a frying pan.”

Tristan shot him a teasing smile, slithering closer to him. The embers in the kitchen hearths were still glowing, enveloping the wide room in a thick heat, and he was feeling slightly flushed under his coat. Dorian’s presence and the wine they had both been drinking was enough to make him sweat. “You seem to have a lot of opinions about Southerners. Specifically Marchers.”

“Indeed,” Dorian said, quirking his brow. “There’s one Marcher in particular I am chock full of opinions about.”

His scent tickled Tristan’s nostrils when he buried his nose in his neck. “Care to share them?” he whispered, placing soft kisses along the underside of his jaw. Dorian caught Tristan’s bottom lip between his teeth when it brushed over his, sighing softly. Sitting on the floor of Skyhold’s kitchens, tipsy from wine and heady kisses - could there be anything better than this?

“This isn’t going to work, you know,” Dorian murmured against his lips.

“What isn’t?”

“You think I haven’t noticed that you still haven’t finished your dinner?” he said as he gingerly picked up a small piece of pie from the plate beside them- the only leftovers they had been able to find. “Kisses don’t work in distracting me. Now, eat.”

Tristan scrunched his nose as Dorian held it before him with the tips of his fingers. “I don’t like it. It tastes like plaster. Plaster with a terrible filling. It makes me queasy.”

“I know. But this is all we have now. So, open up.”

Tristan smirked, brushing his palm down the inside of Dorian’s thigh. “Why does that sounds so enticing when you say it?”

“Oh, no. No, no.” Dorian swatted his hand away, dangling the pie before him again. “I told you I’m not so easily distracted. Don’t even try.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and huffed, accepting the vile thing. Before Dorian could withdraw his hand, Tristan caught his wrist, flicking his tongue over his fingers, drawing them in his mouth. Dorian’s lips parted on a silent gasp, his lids growing heavy as he watched him. Tristan smiled wickedly, placing his cup on the ground as he slid his mouth off Dorian’s fingers, then pushed him on the floor, climbing between his legs. Dorian let out a soft moan, threading his fingers through Tristan’s hair.

“Amatus,” he rasped, “we’re in the kitchens.”

“Are we?” Tristan said, looking around him with a perplexed frown. “And here I thought we were in Cullen’s office.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. Positively hilarious.” He smoothed his palm down Tristan’s back, following the curve at the base of his spine. “What if someone comes in?”

“At this hour, it’s probably just us and a couple rats doing the rounds.” Tristan pushed himself up on his elbows, peering into Dorian’s eyes as he lay beneath him. Dorian watched him carefully, running his tongue over his pillowy bottom lip, over that indentation in its center that Tristan wanted to lick, and bite, and kiss. Maker help him, but he could spend an eternity just kissing his lips.

He took a deep breath to bring some focus back into his brain. “Would it bother you if someone saw us? Together? If it makes you uncomfortable, being seen with me…” He paused to swallow thickly. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that makes you unhappy. If you wish for what we have to remain a secret, so it shall be. I’ll do my best to hide it, and-”

“I want you, amatus,” Dorian whispered, cutting his sentence short. “I want to be seen with you. That’s what worries me.”

“Why?”

Dorian gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, then exhaled softly through his nose. “You and I both know how people will react. They will say that I ensnared you with my wit and charm. That I used evil blood magic from Tevinter to turn you into my plaything.”

Tristan shot him a perplexed frown. “Can blood magic even do that?”

“It can do worse than that.”

“Dorian,” he said, putting on a serious face. “I have something very important to say.”

“Yes?”

“I want to be your plaything.”

Dorian huffed a laugh, smacking him playfully on the shoulder. “Oh, just stop it. I’m being serious.”

“So am I. I want to be your plaything. I want to be your plaything. I want to-”

Dorian stopped him with a kiss, chuckling against his lips. “I know you do, you terrible, terrible man.” He pushed a strand behind Tristan's ear, his silver gaze fixed on his. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum._ ”

“What does that mean?”

“'You will be the death of me'. Quite accurate in this case. Especially if your highly religious and anti-Imperium followers find out about everything you’ve just said.”

Tristan looked at him, his brows furrowing in determination. “They can try to pry you away from me, if they dare.”

“You’re full of lofty declarations tonight, aren’t you?

“You bring it out in me.”

“I’ve noticed I’ve been bringing a great deal out of you lately.”

Tristan laughed, cupping the back of Dorian’s neck as he brushed his lips over his. He deepened the kiss, savouring the sweetness of his tongue, drinking in the sound of his sighs, the pie and their wine entirely forgotten beside them. Tristan didn’t need any of that for sustenance, not when he had Dorian in his arms. He didn’t need food to eat, wine to drink, air to breathe.

He had him. He had him. He had him.

The first light of morning was slithering through the folds in the curtains of his quarters when they finally lay down to sleep. Enveloped in Dorian’s soothing warmth, Tristan felt there was nothing in the world that could disturb the calmness of that moment.

There, wrapped in the heat of Dorian’s body, surrounded by his sweet, earthy scent, with the gentle pull of sleep at the edges of his consciousness, was when the nightmares finally caught up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cliffhanger? Whaaaaaaaaaa?! *insert pikachu face*
> 
> Lots of notes for this chapter!
> 
> 1\. The first poem is _Air Vif_ by Paul Eluard. Here is the English translation:  
> I looked in front of me  
> In the crowd I saw you  
> Among the wheat I saw you  
> Beneath a tree I saw you
> 
> At the end of my journeys  
> In the depths of my torment  
> At the corner of every smile  
> Emerging from water and fire
> 
> Summer and winter I saw you  
> All through my house I saw you  
> In my arms I saw you  
> In my dreams I saw you
> 
> I will never leave you.
> 
> 2\. The second poem is _Holy Sonnet XV_ by John Donne, changed slightly to fit the DA universe.
> 
> 3\. The third poem is _Poem 31 [phainetai moi]_ by Sappho, and it is essentially an amalgamation of the translations by Lord Byron, Lord Alfred Tennyson and A.S Kline, including my own rough translation of the original poem. I have changed it slightly to fit the scene.
> 
> 4\. _Tristan de Lydes_ is my adaptation of _Tristram of Lyonesse_ , a long epic poem written by Algernon Charles Swinburne, which is based on Tristan, hero of Arthurian legend and protagonist of the medieval romance of Tristan and Iseult, also known as Tristan and Isolde. 
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much reading! xoxo


	27. White-Speckled Dove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Sorry for another long absence. Hopefully I can get back to posting regularly again soon :)
> 
> Quick recap: Dorian and Tristan spent a lovely evening exploring Skyhold, sipping wine and reading poetry to each other, and then they went to sleep. That was when Tristan's nightmares finally caught up to him. 
> 
> We're taking a trip down dream and memory lane in this chapter. Fasten your seatbelts, folks. The ride might be a little bumpy. (Just a heads up: it gets a bit dark towards the end. Make sure to check the tags. Enjoy!)

“ _He saw her clear face lighten on his face_

_Unwittingly, with unenamoured eyes_

_For the last time. A live man in such wise_

_Looks in the deadly face of his fixed hour_

_And laughs with lips wherein he hath no power_

_To keep the life yet some five minutes' space._

_So Tristan looked on Ethelwyn face to face_

_and knew not, and she knew not. The last time —_

_The last that should be told in any rhyme_

_Heard anywhere on mouths of singing men_

_That ever should sing praise of them again;_

_The last that sorrow far from them should sit,_

_This last was with them, and they knew not it._ ”

The soft murmur of the waves as they crashed against the shore and the distant squawks of seagulls melded with the spoken words, whirled about him before they were carried away on a sharp gale. The sand was warm where Tristan lay, warm from the sun that had been beating down on the beach all day. With his arm tucked under his head, he watched the fluffy white clouds drift along the untroubled summer sky while Tilly read from the small leather bound book in her hands.

“Isn’t it romantic?” she said, sighing longingly, closing the book and bringing it to her heart. “They were gazing at each other for the last time before Ethelwyn would be taken, yet neither of them knew it. Oh, what pain would Ethelwyn feel, if only she knew!”

Tristan wrinkled his nose, making a disgusted sound. “Forget Ethelwyn,” he replied tartly. “Think about Tristan. He is the one that will have to travel all the way to Ferelden to pry her from King Brayburn. Ethelwyn will just sit there braiding her hair, waiting to be rescued.”

“My, my, what a cynic,” Tilly rolled her eyes. “Have you no heart?”

“I do have a heart. And a brain, apparently.” He yelped when Tilly smacked him on the head with the book. 

“I declare that you have neither.” She grinned at him when he shot her a disgruntled glare. “Now, which part shall I read next? I think Tristan and Ethelwyn’s reunion is in order.”

“Not a chance. Enough with the romance. Read the part where Tristan challenges King Brayburn to a duel.”

“Not that again! It’s boring,” Tilly complained.

“What do you mean ‘again’? We haven’t read that in days!” Tristan said, sitting up. “And it’s not boring. That’s the best part.” 

Tilly rolled her eyes again and scoffed. “It’s very, _very_ boring.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll prove it to you.” Tristan hopped up on his feet, picking up a piece of driftwood that had been lying beside him. “King Brayburn of Ferelden,” he declared in an exaggerated Orlesian accent, his body melting into the starting fencing position. “I am Tristan de Lydes. I have come to claim my bride. Prepare to die. _En guard_ !” He lunged forward, slashing at the air before him. His makeshift sabre whistled as he moved through a _quinte_ , then spun around to slash at his imagined enemy with a _sixte_. “Take this! And that!” he said, piercing his opponent with a _septime_ , then attacking again with an _octave_. “Know the wrath of a true Chevalier, you fetid Fereldan fleabag!” Tilly giggled as she watched him move through the various fencing moves, laughing outright when he lunged forward theatrically, stabbing his opponent. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph. “Right through your stone cold heart! Tristan de Lydes is victorious once more.”

“What if King Brayburn has a dagger hidden under his cloak? That should be interesting.”

Tristan blinked at his sister, then sniffed, tossing his head back in defiance. “Brayburn doesn’t stand a chance against Tristan.”

Tilly smirked, tapping her nose. “Not if Brayburn takes him by surprise.”

Tristan paused for a moment, then returned her smile with a wink. With an exaggerated flurry, he shoved the piece of wood under his arm, as if he had been stabbed in the chest. “Oh! Whence comes this blade that now my breast transfixes? Though I scarcely believe it so, ‘tis true; my heart is in mortal throes. Woe is me! Death is upon me!” Tilly’s laughter rang along the beach, empty save for them. Tristan staggered back, clutching his chest. “Ethelwyn, my love, my white-speckled dove, forgive me, for I have been defeated.” 

“If Sir Tristan were such a pompous fool, I think Ethelwyn would be too busy laughing herself to death to forgive him,” Tilly said, wiping mirth from her eyes. 

Tristan didn’t respond as he fell on one knee, putting on an expression of grave distress. “ _And wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! Speak those words again: yet if they grieve thee say not so- I would not give thy bosom pain._ ” He bit back a grin, watching Tilly howl with laughter, tapping her feet on the sand. He took a deep breath, raising his arm in a plea towards the heavens. “ _My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, my blood runs coldly through my breast; and when I perish thou alone wilt sigh above my place of rest. Oh lady! Blessd be that tear - it falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear, To those whose eyes no tear may steep._ ” Brushing the back of his hand dramatically over his brow, he let himself collapse on the ground while Tilly wheezed beside him.

“Oh, brother,” Tilly said, breathless amidst her sobs of laughter, “you’re a right dafty.”

Tristan smiled, keeping his eyes closed. “I’m no dafty,” he murmured. “I’m Sir Tristan the Brave.”

“He speaks!” Tilly exclaimed, clapping her hand over her mouth. “The dead man speaks!” She turned to him, deft fingers digging in his neck to tickle. “Witchcraft! I sense witchcraft!”

Tristan tried to swat the fingers on his neck away, but it was no use. “Stop it! S-s-stop! Ah! Let me go, you tyrant,” he panted, cackling with the unexpected attack. He rolled away from her, safely out of her grasp. He lay for a moment on the warm sand, catching his breath. “That was cheap,” he said, still panting. “You know how much it-”

He turned around to look at her, only to have his words die on his lips. Empty. The beach was empty, empty space where his sister used to be. Even her footprints on the sand had disappeared. As if she never were. As if the tide had rushed in and washed everything away. 

“Tilly?” Tristan stood up slowly, glancing around him. A lone seagull’s cry and the waves on the shore were the only replies he received. He took a few steps forward, scanning the beach around him. He thought he caught a glimpse of something, someone moving at the edges of his vision. “Till?” he called again, but there was no one there. No one save but him. He paused, rubbing his temples as a faint tightness settled about his skull. It didn’t make sense. She was there only a moment before. Maybe she’d gone back home, or… 

He glanced towards the path that led back up the cliff. There was no way she could have climbed it so swiftly, but there was no other way she could have gone. There was nothing but rocks and sand everywhere around him. He shook his head, brushing away the pressure that seemed to swell behind his eyes with every second. Home. Yes. That’s where she would be. That’s where he would go. He would walk back home and find her, and if she wasn’t there, he would tell Nelly and they would find her together. Nelly would know what to do.

The old path up the crag was always a struggle to climb, but Tristan knew it like the back of his hand. He knew where to step, which rocks to avoid, where to hop and where to tread carefully. He reached the top just as a red and swollen sun was dipping slowly behind the eastern mountain range. The tall grasses on the cliff edge bent and shivered with the wind, the silver edges of their blades glinting in the waning light. Their calm movement drew him in, hypnotising him. He blinked, blinked again, trying to tear his gaze away, just as the edges of his vision blurred with sudden motion. 

The cliff melted away, the beach and the endless stretch of sea beyond it disappeared. A small clearing in a meadow sprung in its place, the same golden sun casting its rays on the soft grass beneath his feet. The leaves of the apple trees above him stirred languidly in the wind, the white petals of their blossoms falling around him like snowflakes. He knew this clearing. He had sat there with Tilly countless times. He would take Sea Spray and she would take Prancer and they would ride all the way there to sit under the trees. A hiding place, of sorts.

A quick shuffling of feet, the susurrus of fabric, drowned out by the sighing of the wind. Tristan spun on his heel, following the sound. Blonde hair, so pale it looked white; a flash of yellow fabric, catching the light as it flitted behind a tree trunk. That bright yellow dress, the one that Tilly loved best, the one she always used to wear in the summer. He chased after it, that bright spark amidst the rain of whirling apple blossoms- and found himself staring into a pair of dark blue eyes, gleaming violet in the setting sun. 

“Tilly,” he panted. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His sister grinned up at him, as if she had never been gone at all. “Let’s go back to town,” she said, taking his hand. The everite band on her finger felt cool against his skin. “We’ll miss the fireworks.”

“The fireworks?” he asked, and only then remembered. Yes, it was Summerday. Ostwick would be filled with people, every street packed to watch the procession of young boys and girls wearing their finest tunics and gowns. They would be making their way through the winding cobblestone lanes to the Chantry to get Andraste’s blessing before they came of age. There would be jugglers and musicians on every street corner, and merchants selling corn on the cob and Antivan spiced cakes, and after the procession was over everyone would gather in the grand square to watch the fireworks. It was Tilly’s favourite day. She loved the way the fireworks crackled and fizzled in the air, exploding in a multitude of glimmering shapes. Tristan had promised he would go with her. A promise he intended to keep. 

But the clearing was quiet and peaceful. He was oddly drawn to it, and the thought of leaving it filled him with sadness, a dark wave that curled and gripped him, pulling him under like there were stones tied to his feet. He let Tilly drag him forward a few steps before he stopped. “Tilly, wait.”

“What’s wrong, Tris?”

He blinked at her for a moment, the waves within him rising, soaring until he could scarcely breathe. “Let’s stay here a little bit longer,” he whispered through the knot in his throat. “Just you and me.”

Tilly regarded him quizzically, her brows furrowed in confusion before she shook her head. Her blonde tresses rippled with the movement. “We’re late already. Come on, it’ll be fun!” She shot him a bright smile over her shoulder as she ran ahead. “I’ll race you to the horses.”

“Wait, don’t-” he started, but the words wouldn’t come out. His heart clenched as he watched her draw further away, her form disappearing through the trees. _Don’t go. Stay with me. Don’t go._

  
  
  


The tavern was almost empty. The last patrons remaining were either mumbling to themselves or sleeping with their heads on the tables, their shiny surfaces sticky with dried ale. Tristan took a long draught from his brandy, wincing as he swallowed. It was bad, burning its way down his throat, but it was good enough. The best he could hope for in that sort of place. He idly watched the crackling of the flames in the hearth, brushing his thumb over the ring on his finger. It glided over the letters etched on its dark surface, smooth and continuous save for a band of fresh everite where he had had it taken out. It irked him to see it marred like that, the inscription interrupted, but there was no way it would fit on his finger otherwise. And on his finger it had to be; on his finger it had to stay, until the time came for him to give it back to its rightful owner. 

He took a shallow breath, giving the ring a small twist. That was the only thing he could do as he waited. And waited. 

The door opened slowly, screeching on its hinges. Tristan glanced at the newcomers from the corner of his eye. A short fellow, dark hair cropped short and beady eyes that seemed to examine the room, taking in every detail even as he pretended not to look in any particular direction. He and the men that came after him took a table at the far end of the tavern. The minstrel, who had been dozing off in one of the booths, sprang to his feet, scrambling to the makeshift stage close to the hearth. His lute let out a pitiful whine as he tuned it hastily, plucking the strings on by one. His voice was just a tad hoarse when he started singing an old song, a bothy ballad from Starkhaven, one that Tristan hadn’t expected to hear there.

The bartender had started preparing mugs of ale before the men had even sat down. Tristan reached for his coin purse, sliding a sovereign to the bartender. “Four glasses of your finest whiskey. For the gentlemen at the back.” The man shot him a sideways glance, his eyes sweeping over Tristan where he sat. A couple seconds passed before he nodded guardedly, picking up the sovereign from the counter. The drinks were served. Tristan waited with bated breath for the men to raise their glasses to him in acknowledgement before walking over to their table.

“Who’s our mysterious benefactor?” the man with the beady eyes said, a heavy Starkhaven lilt to his voice.

“Remy.” Tristan couldn’t risk giving his name to these people, not before he was sure of their intentions. His middle name would have to do. He never used it anyway. It was a stupid name his mother had chosen for him. He hated it. The man nodded towards the seat across from him and Tristan took it, never looking away. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “No last name, Remy?”

“In time,” he replied. “I’m sure you understand.”

The other men exchanged a glance, but the dark haired man’s gaze remained fixed on him. “Of course. I assume you already know our names?”

Tristan nodded slowly. He knew all their names, had taken care to learn them beforehand. The man with the beady eyes was Vala Norden. The blonde to his right was Herriot, the man with the scar down his face was Hooks and the tall Antivan man at the edge of the booth was Andris. Fake names certainly, but notorious among the Ostwick underworld. 

“Very well, Remy. How can we help?” Norden flashed him a smile, the edges curled in a smirk that was vaguely mocking. “I expect you need something from us.”

Tristan didn’t like that smile. It spoke volumes about what the man had already gathered about him; that he was wealthy, probably. Even though he’d taken care to wear his most inconspicuous clothes, the fabric of his doublet was far richer than anyone in that part of town would wear, his coat clean, his shirt freshly pressed. And there was not much he could do about the absence of scars on his face, or the paleness of his skin. Norden had possibly also gathered that he was a young heir, and he might have even guessed which part of Ostwick he was coming from from the way he held himself.

He resisted the urge to bite his lip. He should have given him an entirely assumed name. He cleared his throat, forcing a placid expression on his face. “I have a quest for you.” 

“What quest?”

“A jailbreak. Of sorts.”

“A jailbreak?” Norden echoed. “The Ostwick prison has become notoriously tough to get out of recently. Those bastards have tripled their security over the last year. It will cost you.”

“Not the prison.” Norden’s eyebrow quirked with interest. Tristan’s heart was ready to beat out of his throat. He could leave just then, he knew. Just tell them that he had changed his mind, walk out the door and never come back. But he was determined. He had been trying to track this man down for weeks. There was no one else that could do what he wanted them to do. And they _had_ to do it. Someone had to. 

From the tales he’d heard, the situation in the Circles all around Ferelden and the Marches was getting from bad to worse. Imprisonments, torture, rapes, executions; anything could happen to a mage that simply glanced at a Templar the wrong way, or so he heard. It had already been five years since Tilly was taken, two since he had spoken to her last. The Ostwick Circle had been the last to ban visitations, but it’d been a full year since it had forbidden letters from family and friends as well. Keeping mages under lock and key, allowing them no contact with the outside world, leaving them prey to whatever madness was happening behind their closed doors. Tristan couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t eat, could hardly breathe for his worry for her. 

He clenched his fist in his lap. _All or nothing,_ he reminded himself. All or nothing. 

“The Circle of Magi.”

Norden’s beady eyes widened so much, Tristan thought they would pop out of their sockets. “The Circle of _Magi_?” he scoffed. “It seems to me you’ve lost your mind, Remy. Perhaps you should have another drink. To clear your head.”

Tristan curled his fingers around his mug, his lips tightening in a line. “I know how it sounds. It’s difficult, yes, but not impossible. I’ve heard of a way in.” He paused, lowering his voice to a half whisper. “I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Norden’s smirk belied his interest, but his gaze was still hard as stone, and as unyielding as one. “Oh, I don’t think you would have near enough gold to finance such a venture. We would need men, resources, new weapons...” He let his words trail off as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“How much?”

“... information about the Templar’s patrols, about possible ways in and out… That sort of knowledge comes at a price. Not to mention buying the guards’ silence. Just with my brief calculations you’ve gathered yourself quite a hefty sum-”

“I said; how much?” Tristan’s fist was wrapped so tightly about his mug his knuckles were white, and he forced himself to release it. He had to keep his composure. He couldn’t let these men realise he was desperate, or they would feast upon him like scavengers upon a carcass.

“One hundred thousand sovereigns.”

Tristan’s blood froze in his veins. That was… that was… he never thought he had heard of such a sum before. It was certainly much, much higher than what he’d heard Norden charging for a job. Other than his own monthly allowance, his mother gave him no access to the family fortune. If he sold every item in the Trevelyan manor that wasn’t lodged firmly in place, he might be able to gather about two thirds of that amount. If he sold a few of the horses, some of the rare ones they kept in the stables, he might be able to cover the rest. His own horse, Sea Spray, would have to go. Imperial Warmbloods sold well in the Ostwick markets. His stomach tightened at the thought of selling their horses, but he had to. They might be enough to make up the amount that Norden asked. Maybe. If he were able to get a good price for them, and Maker knew he was terrible at bartering. 

Just as he was trying to wrap his mind around Norden’s demands, the man spoke again, sending Tristan’s stomach plummeting even further. 

“We’re also going to be needing equipment. And horses. And food for the horses.”

Tristan clenched his jaw, returning Norden’s gaze levelly. As levelly as he could while his guts were coiling like eels under his skin. “Fifty thousand sovereigns,” he said in what he hoped was an icy tone. “And five horses.” 

Norden blinked at him for a moment, then let out a quiet harrumph. “I don’t think you’re in a position to barter with me. In fact, I don’t even think you’re in a position to barter with anyone. Do you even have that amount of gold?”

“I do,” Tristan said quickly. “I will.”

“You will?” There was a mocking glint in Norden’s eyes before they narrowed, focusing on him like well sharpened blades. “Perhaps I should double it, then. Since you sound so certain. Two hundred thousand? That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it, lads?” His crawlies nodded, sneering.

“No!” Tristan said quickly, and flinched inwardly at his hastiness. He cleared his throat, suppressing the wild beating of his heart. “No. One hundred. I’ll give you one hundred. You’ll have it.”

Norden’s grin widened, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Very well. One hundred. And twenty horses. Ten pack horses, five destriers, five coursers.”

Twenty horses. Void take him. The Trevelyan manor stables were amongst the largest in Ostwick, and they only held thirty four horses. Perhaps if he was careful, at night, perhaps… He swallowed thickly, nodding. “Alright. Twenty horses. You’ll have them.”

“Oh. And one more thing.” Tristan held his breath, preparing himself for whatever outrageous thing Norden was going to ask next. Norden leaned forward on the table. His eyes flashed oddly in the half light. “You’ll let my boy Andris here do whatever he wants to you for a night.”

Tristan gaped at him. Bile rose in his throat, choking him. He was going to be sick. Surely, he was. The men around him erupted in raucous laughter, banging their mugs on the table.

“You should make it two nights boss,” the man with the scar on his face said. “There might be some left over for us after Andris is finished with him.”

“I say we keep him for three nights.”

“How about a week? A week’s fair.”

“More than fair.”

Tristan could only stare as Norden and his crawlies laughed and jeered, discussing among themselves like he wasn’t even there. It took significant effort to work some saliva into his mouth and speak. “What is the meaning of this?” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as meek as he felt. “I’ve been told that you’re a man that one can make a reasonable deal with. Seems I was mistaken.”

The laughter died down. Norden and his men glared at him. Silence stretched long amongst them, the minstrel’s lute that had gone slightly out of tune the only sound in the room. After what felt like minutes, Norden settled back on his chair, gesturing to his men. “Toss him out.”

“What?” Tristan breathed, eyeing the men that had stood up, looming over him. He fumbled for words as he saw his only chance slipping between his fingers. “No- wait- I-I told you I’d bring the gold. And the horses. I told you-”

“Told me?” Norden laughed, the sound sending chills down Tristan’s spine. “No. You come into my bar, buying me and my men drinks and asking us to storm the Circle of Magi for you. I wouldn’t go into that shithole even if they offered me Queen Anora on a silver platter. This has been amusing, but Vala Norden doesn’t make deals with madmen. Remember that.” He nodded to his men. “Show him out, boys. Rough him up a little on the way, will you? That’ll teach him to come around here again.”

Two pairs of hands, their grip strong like iron, tightened around Tristan’s arms. The minstrel’s tune got louder as Tristan was hauled to his feet. He kicked and grunted swears while Norden’s thugs dragged him bodily across the tavern, to no avail. They were far stronger than he was. Norden raised his drink, downing it in one go just before his men pushed him out the door. “Thanks for the whiskey, by the way,” he called out to him. “A fine choice.”

A heavy autumn drizzle had started to fall, the droplets dampening the top of his head when he was shoved out into the street. Hooks’s fist landed on his cheek before he could regain his footing. His head snapped to the side, ears ringing with the force of the impact. Tristan staggered back, tasting blood in his mouth, just as another fist flew his way. This time he ducked to avoid the blow, shoving his knee into Hooks’s stomach instead. It was almost instinctual, the way his body moved before he could even think to ward off his attackers. The man groaned, doubling over. Andris took a threatening step towards him, pressing his fist to his palm.

“Wanted to make a deal with Vala, did you?” he said, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Came all the way down here from your fancy mansion to take the piss?”

Tristan’s anger flared hot and bright. He dabbed the cut on his lip with his tongue, the strong taste of copper mingling with his saliva. “Fuck you,” he spat, stepping back when Andris swung for his head. He dodged behind him, shoving the flat of his palm to the base of his thick skull, then following it with a good kick at his knee joint. The man groaned in pain, swinging around wildly in his effort to get to him. Tristan almost smiled when he saw him limping. He idly wondered what his Chevalier-trained fencing tutor would say if he saw him attacking someone from behind in a brawl. He edged back when Andris staggered his way, avoiding his fist and landing a hard punch under his chin instead, taking just a tiny bit of satisfaction when he heard the definitive sound of teeth cracking.

He was about to land a finishing strike on Andris’s face when the sound of gravel under heavy boots behind him stopped him. He spun around, ready to pounce on Hooks and release all his frustration on his ugly, disfigured face, when the flash of steel made him freeze in his tracks. 

“Like playing it tough, do you, sweetheart?” the man hissed, taking a step closer. His lips widened in a grin when he noticed Tristan’s apprehension. “Will you act as tough after I cut you open and hand you your guts like a fucking Satinalia gift?”

Tristan swallowed, his gaze flicking between the well sharpened blade before him and the man’s face. He looked deranged, eyes gleaming in the dark. He stepped back carefully, his pulse buzzing in his ears like bees in a jar. A buzz that turned into high pitched ringing when he bumped against Andris’s chest. Trapped. He was trapped. Backed in a corner, between a blade and Andris’s fists waiting to crush him. 

“You noble shits walking about like you own the place,” Hooks continued, voice thick with vehemence. His grin got even wider, twisting his features. “I’ll teach you a lesson, duckling. Oh, I’ll teach you. What if I slice that pretty face of yours down the middle? That should scare the ladies away.” He took another step, when Andris’s grunt stopped him.

“No blades.”

Hooks’s eyes snapped to Andris’s, the white in them glimmering threateningly. “Are you joking?” 

Andris shook his head. “Don’t want a noble bleeding to death on our fucking doorstep.” The tall man shoved Tristan back, sending him tumbling on the muddy ground. His large booted foot crashed against his stomach, knocking his breath right out of him. A guttural, pitiful groan escaped him as he tried to scramble away, when Andris’s boot dug into him again. And again. And again. The Antivan stared down at him like he was an ant, grinning. “He can squirm on our doorstep, though.”

The pain was blinding. Tristan coughed and wheezed, trying to get some air back into his lungs. Every breath sent his ribs and stomach muscles screaming in agony. He dug his nails in the gravel, slowly clawing his way away from the sneering men. His heart was beating frantically in his chest, banging against his ribcage. 

He flinched in terror when Hooks squatted down, grabbing a fistful of his hair and forcing Tristan’s gaze to his. He was an ugly bastard, his face so close to him, his breath stinking of booze and smoke. Tristan bit his bleeding lip, mustering all his courage to stifle the urge to plead for his life. To beg for mercy. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction. Not if he could help it.

As if he could read his thoughts, Hooks gave him a wide smile. “Goodnight, little dove,” he said sweetly before his fist collided with Tristan’s face, sending his head bouncing on the hard packed ground beneath him. He groaned with the pain that exploded behind his eyelids, winced as a thin stream of warm liquid trickled down his scalp. Hooks stood up, chuckling under his breath as he clapped Andris on the shoulder. The street was bathed in the soft orange light from the inside of the tavern for a moment before the door clicked shut behind them, engulfing the world in darkness once more. 

Tristan lay on the ground for a long while. Minutes. Hours, for all he could tell. He lay as still as he could, gasping and sputtering blood, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were. It took more out of him than he would have thought to slowly, shakily press himself up into all fours. He crawled to a nearby wall, clawing at the gaps between the bricks to haul himself up. His head was swimming as he leaned heavily against it, panting. There was no other light save for the light flickering from the tavern’s closed windows, and the full moon that was staring him down from its place atop the sky’s velvet canopy. Tristan let out a tremulous breath, pressing his eyes shut in hopes of abating the burn that had built up behind them.

Gone. One more glimmer of hope of getting Tilly out gone, snuffed out like the flame of a candle, one more plan crushed like a butterfly under an anvil. It had taken him weeks to find out how to approach Norden, weeks of asking and begging and gathering information and bribing, all for nothing. All to get beaten up in a back alley. Spat upon. Humiliated. He’d been in bar fights before, but this was… this was different. These men wanted to hurt him. They’d taken pleasure from hurting him. They would have done worse, if it hadn’t been so inconvenient for them. Even if they had, he would only have himself to blame. 

He blinked, angrily scrubbing hot tears mingled with mud and blood from his face. A fool, a damned fool was what he was. He had let those men sniff his desperation, and they had pounced on it like hounds on blood. Never again, he promised himself. Never again.

He peeled himself off the wall, groaning when the world spun around him. The night was still dark and thick, not a soul passing by the quiet street. He had to move. He had to leave that place. If someone saw him there, in the state he was in now, they would probably not hesitate for a breath before finishing what the others had started. No one in their right minds walked about this part of town after sundown. At least not those that didn’t belong there. It’d been a mistake to come there from the start. A mistake, or naivety, or utter madness - Tristan wasn’t sure what it was that drove him anymore. Mad. He was probably mad. Mad, for fighting to get his sister out, when there was no way of getting her out. Mad, for trying again and again, even though every time he failed worse than the last. Mad, for clinging on to hope that he could change things, fix things, make everything the way it was before. Mad. Mad. Mad.

His palm, when he dragged it over his face again, came away wet and bloody. Useless. Stupid and mad and useless. There was no changing things. No fixing things. No hope. He wasn’t a hero, or a brave Chevalier of legend, a knight in shining armour. He wasn’t Tristan de bloody Lydes. He was alone. All alone. And somewhere, in a cold cell in the Circle Tower, she was alone, too.

Despair rose in him in a wave. It was all too much, far too much. His breath came in short and shallow pants as the world closed in around him. Everything was spinning, whirling out of his control. He reached out for something, anything to stop his fall-

His fingers closed about an outstretched hand. He looked up, blinking at the young man before him. Pale blue eyes staring at him through a curtain of light blonde hair, falling messily about a pale face. His features obscured by a wide brim hat. 

Those features tugged at Tristan’s memory. He squinted at the man through his haze. “What… who-”

“I’m Cole,” the man said softly. “I’m here to help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The opening lines of the chapter are from _Tristram of Lyonesse_ by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Changed slightly by me.
> 
> 2\. The poem Tristan recites is _And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low_ by Lord Byron.
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	28. The Prodigal Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Recap: Tristan has fallen down a rabbit hole of memories and dreams, searching for Tilly. Cole comes to help. 
> 
> The trip down memory lane continues! This is the first part of a longer chapter that (unsurprisingly) got a liiiittle too long. I hope you enjoy! Next chapter will be up soon :)

“Cole,” Tristan breathed. The young man before him blinked slowly, like a cat basking in midday sun despite the darkness all around them. The autumn rain was falling steadily, the soft pattering of the raindrops on the mud puddles mingling with the sound of distant thunder. “I… I know you.”

“Yes,” Cole said simply. “You remember me.”

Tristan did remember him, he realised. His name, his features were vaguely familiar, a fading echo. The more Tristan tried to grasp it, the further it drifted away from him. He glanced about him, at the narrow street that stretched before them, at the low stone buildings with their grey-slated roofs. Cole was simply standing there, in his worn leathers and his wide brim hat, his form blending with the surroundings, but there was something about him. Something that didn’t quite fit. He was there, but wasn't, the edges of his image blurred yet distinct, like butter in warm milk. Like he belonged, but didn’t.

“I don’t,” he said. Tristan stared blankly at him for a moment, and Cole continued. “We’re in your head.”

“My head?”

“Yes. This is your dream. A memory of a dream.” He paused, thinking. “A dream-like memory.”

“A dream?” Tristan stopped, rubbing his temples. His head still hurt from the blow, blood trickling down his scalp. This was no dream. It was real, like he himself was real. Or… wasn’t it? Was he hallucinating? “Why are you here?” he asked after a short while. “How did you even get here?"

“Your thoughts are too loud.” Cole picked at the wrappings on his palm, pale blue eyes fixed on him. “I came to help.”

Tristan watched the gentle, steady movement of his fingers. It was quick, twitch-like, absent-minded. Eerily precise. Dark red stains covered the wrappings, stains that got wider and wider the more he picked at them, drenching the fabric. “Your hands,” Tristan said, reaching out to take his palm in his. “There’s blood.” The grey cobblestone streets of Ostwick flickered and tilted, the ground shifting beneath his feet.

“Not mine,” Cole whispered, glancing at the stains. His fingers curled about a pair of daggers.

They were standing at the gates of a burning village, Cole's daggers dipped in blood, lifeless bodies sprawled on the snow around him. Red Templars, their dead, blood-shot eyes still glowing in the night. Thick plumes of smoke were rising from the burning huts, the clash of steel against steel echoing all around them, the thundering crash of the trebuchets splitting his eardrums.

“Haven,” Tristan breathed. Cole nodded, lips set in a grim line.

"Where it all began."

Snowflakes were falling softly upon fallen bodies and shattered buildings, lazily swirling with the night breeze, while all around them people screamed in terror. Cullen was giving orders to his men a little way away, the sharpened edge of his sword glinting as he moved. The scent of blood and smoke clung to the back of Tristan’s throat, thick like mud. His own hands were crimson and sticky, his skin clinging to the leather handles of his daggers. How many people had he cut down? How many had fallen before his feet, blood oozing from their split throats, their wounds already festering with the poisons he’d used?

How many had he managed to save? How many?

A hand on his arm snapped him out of his thoughts. Sterling grey eyes met his as he turned.

“Herald,” Dorian panted. “We need to get back to the Chantry building. You must hurry.”

“The Chantry? But-” The loud screeching of the dragon overhead drowned out Tristan’s words.

Dorian’s hand closed more firmly about his arm. “We need to go! There’s no time!”

Tristan let himself be pulled forward, Dorian’s hand on his arm guiding him along. There was chaos everywhere, but all he could see was Dorian’s back ahead of him. Stately and graceful even when running for his life through a Templar-infested village, the amber light of the burning buildings catching in his glossy hair, in the shiny buckles of his armour. Tristan would follow him anywhere. That, he knew with certainty. And follow him he did, stepping over the fallen bodies in his way, jumping over the piles of loose stones and broken planks, running through the twisting, narrow passages between the huts. He followed, until a cry from a nearby building stopped him short.

He remembered that voice. He remembered that hut. He remembered the fire, the smoke, the burning planks falling on-

“Flissa,” he whispered under his breath. His guts twisted like coiling snakes.

Dorian halted, brows gathered in concern when he turned around. “Herald, we must-”

“Dorian,” Tristan said, grabbing him by the shoulders. Dorian’s face was smeared with dirt and blood, drawn and haggard, but all the smudges and weariness in the world couldn’t hide the sharpness of those high cheekbones, the subtle curve of his lips, the brightness in his almond shaped eyes. And the concern there. The care. He _cared._ Even then. Even though he barely knew him, even though he hardly had a reason to get to know him. The only person, even then, that saw him as something more. More than his title, more than his station, more than what others had made him out to be. Perhaps more than he ever truly was. No wonder Tristan had been drawn to him from the start. A moth, helplessly drawn to a naked flame. Circling it, even as its wings threatened to be singed. Or was it the other way around?

Tristan brushed his knuckle over a speck of dust on Dorian’s cheek, committing his features to memory, as he had done so many times before. He was beautiful. Even then. Especially then.

Another sharp cry brought his attention back to the present.

He shook his head, pressing his eyes shut. “Dorian,” he said again. “I have to help her. She’s in there.”

“Who?” Dorian’s brows gathered in confusion. “Everyone should be at the Chantry by now. We must get you to safety-”

“Flissa is in there. I can’t leave her. Not again. Just-” His fingers trembled slightly when he let go of Dorian’s shoulders, taking a step back. “Go to the Chantry. I’ll be right behind you.”

“But, Herald-”

Tristan turned around without another word, heedless of Dorian’s pleas. He dashed ahead, kicking the burning door of the hut open. Smoke and smouldering ashes stung his eyes, grated at his throat with every breath. He squinted and coughed, peering about him. A young woman was standing in the middle of the hut, her form illuminated by embers, obscured by smoke. Pale blonde hair, falling freely about her shoulders. Dark blue eyes, oceans at storm, staring straight at him. A mirror of his own.

“Tilly,” Tristan breathed. He took a step forward, just as the roof above him creaked ominously. He glanced up, only to see planks and burning thatch falling upon him like rain. “Tilly!” He pushed forth, reaching out. “Take my hand, we have to-”

His words were drowned out by the deafening crash of the wooden planks from above. It was instinct that made him lunge to the side, out of the way of a burning beam that fell by his side. He coughed with the cloud of smoke that rose, choking him. He blinked, blinked again, frantically searching for her- only to have his breath leave him when he saw a mountain of smoking wood and debris where she had been.

“No. No, no, no, no.” He ran to the small mount, scorching his hands as he grabbed the fallen logs, still aglow with flames. “No, no, no. No. No.” He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see for the smoke and the tears in his eyes. Couldn’t think for the despair that gripped his heart like a vice, yet he kept digging through the smouldering logs. He couldn’t leave her. Not again. Not again.

“You can’t save her.”

Tristan blinked through the smoke and the ash and the tears. “What?”

Cole’s calm blue gaze met his levelly. “She’s gone. You can’t save her.”

“No!” Tristan snarled. “She’s not. I can. I will. I’ll-”

The smoke cleared. The burning walls of the hut faded away, and with them Haven, the Templars, the soldiers. Dorian. Oh, Dorian.

Tristan’s shoulders sagged, his palms pressed on soft grass. He was on his knees at the edge of a cliff, the waves roaring far below as they crashed against the rocks. He glanced at his hands. Not a burn mark, not a speck of dust, not a splash of blood. His everite ring glinted on his finger with the light of the setting sun. She was gone. Again.

“You’ve had this dream before.” Cole was sitting cross legged beside him, fingers running lightly over the petals of a violet anemone. “You couldn’t save her in the hut because that wasn’t her. She’s not here. She’s-”

“Dead.” The word fell cold on his still heaving breast. Tristan sat back on his heels, gazing past the cliff and the shivering tufts of tall grass at its edge, past the frothing waves, past the darkening, indigo sky. It was all clear now, the dreams and memories dissipating like smoke. Cole remained by his side, his form more distinct than ever.

“She’s dead,” Tristan whispered again. “I know.” He rubbed his palm over his face, taking in a sharp breath. It was hard. It was always hard, the realisation. The painful landing in that harsh, unforgiving reality. She was gone. Irrevocably. Irredeemably. Nothing he did would ever bring her back. It wasn’t the first time. If only it had been. Hadn’t he been having the same dreams, the same nightmares, over and over for years, searching for her, getting only a breath away from saving her only to have his hopes turn to ashes in his hands? Only to wake up in the darkness, gasping and sweating, knowing that he’d never speak to her, hold her, gaze upon her face again? That he’d never, ever hear her laugh again?

“I hate this,” he gasped, rubbing his chest with his knuckles. “Maker, I hate it. I’d- I’d gladly live in a nightmare my entire life if I knew I’d find her on the other side. I can’t-” He squeezed his eyes shut when he felt heat building up beneath them. He inhaled slowly as he opened them again, clenching his jaw. “I want to leave this place. I want to wake up.”

“You will,” Cole replied. “When it’s time.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you- are you the one keeping me here?”

“No. You are. I’m here to help.” Cole returned his gaze, pale blue eyes catching the light of the setting sun. “You’re hurting. You’ve been hurting for a long while. You keep searching for her. You leave what is ahead of you to chase what is behind you.” His voice was soft, mingling with the sighing of the sea breeze. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tristan replied tiredly. Speaking was incredibly hard all of a sudden. “I swore that I’d get her out. That I’d change things. Fix things. Make everything the way it was before. I promised her. Void take me, I promised her, but I couldn’t do it, and now-” He stopped, the words catching in his throat. “Now I can’t find peace. I don’t want to. It’s just the way it is. The way it should be. She met her peace, I pray she did, but I’ll never find any.”

“You can.” Cole stayed silent for a long moment, studying him under the shadow of his hat. “You have to follow the thread. See where it leads you. You may find peace then.”

“I know where it leads. There’s no peace to be found there.” Wasn’t it enough to have lived it all once? Did he have to live through it again?

Cole gently plucked an anemone petal, held it before his eyes before letting his fingers open. The petal drifted with the breeze, a violet speck against the sky that was steadily darkening. “That promise,” he whispered. “It weighs on you like a stone. A stone you cling to as you sink. You must let it go, or you'll drown.”

“Perhaps I have no other choice but to drown,” Tristan murmured, eyes fixed on his thumb as it brushed over the ring on his finger.

The wind picking up speed was his only response as Cole kept gazing at him in thought. Tristan looked away, letting out a long sigh. He was tired. So tired. He needed to wake up, and he longed to go to sleep, but he found himself capable of doing neither. He closed his eyes, waiting for the wind to drift over him and carry him away. Carry him home.

“Wake up.” A finger jabbed at his arm, rousing him. “Wake up, sleepyhead. He’s here!”

Tristan’s eyes fluttered open. He winced with the light that suddenly stabbed his retinas. He brought his hand before his face to shield it from the blinding sun, glancing about him. The leaves of the elaborately trimmed bushes of the Trevelyan manor gardens glinted silver as they moved with the wind, the scent of the hundred-leafed embrium blossoms and of the ginger biscuits baking in the kitchens wafting in the humid air. The breeze that blew was gentle, but did nothing to abate the summer heat. If anything, it made it worse.

“Who’s here?” he asked, straightening up on his seat. A book of history was open on his lap, and he let it fall closed. He must have dozed off while reading. The wooden seats under the gazebo were not especially comfortable, but at least they were shielded from the glaring midday sun.

“Your new horse, of course!” Fat drops of condensation were arcing lazily down the glass of lemonade in Tilly’s hands as she brought it to her lips. She took a sip, then nodded towards the stables. “Doesn’t he look lovely?”

Tristan followed her gaze, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. His mother had bought an Imperial Warmblood stallion as a gift for his coming of age, along with an Orlesian courser gelding for Tilly. The dapple grey stallion was tall and proud, its gate smooth and relaxed. The man holding his reins was tall, too- taller than the horse itself.

“Is that… Pod?” Tristan asked, narrowing his eyes. “Podrick Kaylen?”

Tilly squinted, then her eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, yes! Yes, I think it is. Mama said she would bring someone from the Crandock estate to train the new arrivals.”

They both watched in silence as the young man led the horse in the circular training pen, gently pulling on its reins. Tristan remembered him. He remembered him well. He remembered looking forward to going to their summer home in Crandock as soon as the winter rains had abated and the spring winds lulled. Sten Kaylen and his family lived there, taking care of the house and the horses. Tristan, Tilly and Pod would spend most of their day riding and playing games near the lake outside the estate or at the small, secluded beach nearby, until Pod’s mother or Nelly would call them back, scolding them for staying out so late. Tristan hadn’t been to the summer estate in years.

“My, he’s grown tall,” Tilly said, languidly fanning herself beside him with her lace trimmed fan. “I remember him being a bit of a runt when we were younger. You two were always running about. Do you remember?”

Tristan didn’t respond as his gaze roamed over Pod’s form. Lean and lanky, ink black hair gathered at the nape of his neck. A light tan coloured his pale forearms where he had pushed his shirtsleeves back, the straw hat he was wearing casting shadows on his long nose, his strong chin, the sharp angle of his jaw. The stallion at the end of his lead rope was moving in circles around him, one moment trotting, the next galloping, then slowing down with nothing but a click of Pod’s tongue. Sometimes, he didn’t even have to do that. Just by the way he moved his head or held the rope, the animal seemed to know what to do. And the way he held that rope, long, strong fingers wrapping around it in a firm grip, tugging gently-

Tristan cleared his throat, looking away. “I remember the Kaylens well enough,” he said, opening the book on his lap on a random page. “Nelly always says Sten Kaylen is the best horse trainer the Trevelyans have ever had.”

Tilly hummed her assent, sipping on her lemonade. “Podrick seems to be taking after him. He’s done a fine job training the horses, as far as I can tell.”

Before he knew it, Tristan’s gaze had drifted from his book towards the training pen again. His heart fluttered awkwardly in his chest when he remembered all those lazy summer afternoons he had spent by the lake or the sea, watching Pod skim stones on the surface of the water while he lay on the sand. Tristan always did like to watch him.

He shook his head, frowning at himself. It was absurd. He barely knew him anymore. They hadn’t spoken in years. And Tristan had only been a child back then. Now he was a man grown. He had stoically endured all the balls and galas his mother had dragged him and Tilly to that winter to present them, and everyone had marvelled at their manners and their knowledge of politics and history. He would soon be betrothed to Elisa Carruthers, the second eldest daughter of the Teyrn of Ostwick’s cousin in law, and they would get married as soon as they’d both completed their education. Mother had said it was all but settled. He would be a proper Trevelyan, wife and title and all.

His stomach tightened uncomfortably. He took a sip of lemonade, hoping it would soothe him, but it only made the ache worse. “Do you think Mother will send him back to Crandock once summer is over?” he asked, feigning disinterest.

“Who? Podrick?” She glanced back at the training pen. “I’m not sure. I should hope not. He seems to be doing a rather good job with the horses. Better than the last stable hand, at least. Oh, this dress is damnably hot,” she complained, picking at the fabric of her long lilac skirt. “The seamstress insisted we added two muslin petticoats under the skirt this time. Apparently, it’s all the rage in Val Royeaux. Who knew that being fashionable would mean being twice as hot.”

Tristan nodded absently. The stallion had stopped galloping now, and was standing still, lazily chewing on its bit. It bobbed its head when Pod stepped closer, his palm trailing slowly down the animal’s long neck. Maker, his _hands_ -

“Oh, Nelly!” Tilly exclaimed suddenly, stirring Tristan from his reverie. His sister hopped to their ageing housekeeper’s side, who was walking slowly towards the gazebo bearing a tray of fresh biscuits and a pitcher of lemonade. “Look, Nelly, it’s the new mount! Isn’t he beautiful?”

Nelly lightly wiped her brow with her handkerchief, then slipped it carefully back in her pocket. Her stiff grey dress looked quite warm for this kind of weather, and a few silver strands had escaped her tight bun, but her eyes, when she smiled, were as sharp and keen as ever.

“He is,” she nodded, patting Tilly’s hand when his sister wound it around her arm. “He looks lovely indeed.”

“You remember Podrick, don’t you?”

“How could I forget?” the older woman said, her smile widening. “He was such a well mannered boy, and is now a fine young man. He and the young master used to be inseparable. I had to send Marianne to drag them back for dinner almost every evening.”

Tristan crossed his arms before his chest, heat travelling up his cheeks. “Surely you're exaggerating, Nelly. I remember no such thing. And I’m not “young master” anymore,” he added with a sniff. “You are to call me “Lord Trevelyan”. That is my proper title now that I’ve come of age, you know.”

Nelly and Tilly exchanged a glance before bursting out in laughter. Tristan frowned at them as they giggled, his face flushing even more. Nelly shot him a wide smile, wiping mirth from the corner of her eye. “With that frown you wear, you look more like a peevish child than a lord. My lord,” she added, still chuckling.

Tilly clapped her hands, laughing even more. “Oh, yes! Especially when he gets that wrinkle between his brows. He looks like a five year old who’s just had his toy taken away.”

“I am not a child,” Tristan rolled his eyes. “And stop talking about me like I’m not here!”

Tilly beamed at him as she leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek. “You’re lovely. But you’re still a child.” Before Tristan could grumble his annoyed response, she threaded her arm through Nelly’s, pulling her towards the house. “Come, Nelly, I have to show you the new dresses the seamstress brought me. They’re very hot, but they’re absolutely beautiful. Especially the yellow one with the white flowers embroidered along the hemline…”

Tristan watched them as they drew further away. He let out an irritated huff under his breath as he opened his book once again. He was not a child. He wasn’t. He was a man grown, soon to be married. Married to a woman. A nice woman, from a wealthy, respectable family. It was a perfect match, Mother had said.

He blinked in surprise when he realised his gaze had drifted from the book towards the training pen once more. Pod was calmly leading the horse back to the stables, the end of the riding crop he was holding dangling behind him as he walked. Without really stopping to think, Tristan stood up, setting the book next to the tray. There was no one in the gardens at that hour, he noticed, as his feet led him straight to the stables. He stepped under the cool shade just as Pod was closing the door of the stall behind the horse. He turned around, picking up a shovel that was leaning against a wooden beam, when he suddenly froze.

Dark eyes, black as moonless night, fixed themselves on Tristan. He blinked once, then straightened. “Hello.”

That voice. That even, baritone voice. Had it always been so deep, had it always glided down his spine like warmed honey? Mad, of course it hadn’t. He would remember it if it were so. “Hi.” Tristan’s voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “Hi. Hello, Pod.” He shifted on his feet, all words eluding him under the intensity of that dark gaze. His fingers fidgeted absently with the hem of his doublet as he racked his brain for something to say. Pod was just standing there, watching him. Perhaps he didn’t remember him. They hadn’t seen each other in so long, it wouldn’t surprise him if he’d forgotten all about him. “I’m… I’m Tr-”

“I know who you are.” Pod’s expression, when he spoke, was placid, unreadable. He’d always been hard to read, his gaze reticent, his thoughts impenetrable. His fingers tightened about the handle of the shovel before his grip eased. “Been a while, Tristan.”

His name, spoken in that voice, was enough to make his head swim. He smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes. Yes, It has. Three years? Or is it four?”

“Five and a half,” Pod corrected simply, then pressed his lips shut. His eyes flicked beyond the stable door before returning to him.

“Right. Of course.” Tristan’s palms felt clammy. He wiped them absently on his trousers. “He looks good.”

“Hm?”

“The new horse. It looks good.”

“Oh. Aye. It does.” Pod took a step closer to the animal, patting its nose. “I was told he was for you.”

Tristan’s heart did a small, awkward flip in his chest. “Yes. He is.”

“How are you going to name him?”

Pod didn’t move away when Tristan came closer, reaching out to thread his fingers through the horse’s soft mane. He was standing so close to Pod now, he could almost smell the scent of hay on his clothes, the light musk of his sweat. There was a slight sheen on his neck, a couple strands of black hair clinging to the sweat on his brow. Tristan swallowed thickly, turning to look at the animal. It returned his gaze with a calm, gentle nod. He let his palm glide down its neck, light grey spots on its coat mingling with white. Like waves frothing as they crashed against the shore. “Sea Spray,” he said softly. “I’ll call him Sea Spray.”

“Sea Spray,” Pod echoed, nodding. “A good name.” He stayed silent for a moment before he added, “He’ll be ready for you to ride soon.”

“Really?” Tristan’s lips widened in a smile before he could help it. “I thought it would take another week of training, at least.”

“No. He’s already been saddle-broken. I’ll take him for a couple laps around the place tomorrow, but he’s all yours after that.”

Tristan felt his cheeks flushing, and it had nothing to do with the summer heat. “There’s a horse trail leading to the Cardis Bay beach, not far from here,” he said, without thinking. “We could ride there someday.”

Pod stared blankly at him for a breath. Then his brows gathered. “We?”

“Yes. I mean- yes. With- with the horses. You-” he bit the inside of his lip, his breath catching, “-you like the sea. Right? Or- or-” His head was spinning. He was going to faint. What in the Void was wrong with him all of a sudden? “You know what? Nevermind. You’re probably busy, I shouldn't be distracting you from your work.” He gave him a tight smile before turning around to walk towards the door. He had only taken a couple steps before Pod’s voice stopped him.

“I like the sea.”

Tristan glanced at him over his shoulder. Pod’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “We could go there. If you’d like.”

The world stopped for a breath when Pod’s lips widened in a smile. Tristan's pulse thrummed in his ears as he returned it with one of his own.

Tristan tapped his pen on the page of the open book before him, eyes fixed outside the window of his room. He had been waiting for the sun to set all day. Now it was just turning orange, dipping lazily below the horizon. The sea in the distance was calm and flat like oil in a shallow bowl, tinted red and gold. Tristan felt like he was sitting on a bed of coals.

He flung his pen down when he saw the stablemaster returning to the servants' quarters. With a last glance in his looking glass Tristan walked out of his room and tiptoed down the stairs. Careful not to let his heels click on the glossy marble steps, he took a turn as soon as he reached the large hall, sneaking out of the house from the side kitchen door.

The stables were only a little way away. Tristan heard footsteps approaching and flattened himself against the wall, obscured from view by a tall bush pruned in a spherical shape. It was odd, playing hide and seek in his own house. He never knew how hard it could be. The Trevelyan manor was expansive, but the number of servants made it hard to go unnoticed. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest when he finally crossed the stables’ threshold.

The sight of the tall, dark haired youth shovelling straw only a little way ahead made his pulse that much more erratic. So did the flush that crept up his cheeks when his dark eyes took Tristan in. The shovel was discarded swiftly before Pod made his way towards him.

"Did anyone see you?" he whispered, stealing a glance over Tristan's shoulder.

Tristan shook his head, reaching up to feel the fabric of Pod's shirt. The linen was soft and pliant from wear, warm with the heat of his body, the collar just a little damp with sweat. "I missed you," he breathed, thinking out loud, letting himself be nudged back into an empty stall. Pod's lips, when they met his own, were plush and sweet, only slightly chapped from the late summer heat. Tristan hummed against those lips, linking his arms behind Pod's neck to pull him closer. Closer to him. As close as possible.

“I thought you were going to the Carruthers tonight,” Pod said quietly, his palms gliding down his back, following the curve of his spine.

Tristan sighed, melting in his arms like wax over a candle flame. Those hands. What he wouldn't give to be held by those hands, in those arms for as long as he drew breath. He dabbed his lips with his tongue, eyelids fluttering dreamily as Pod pulled back to look at him. Right. A question. Pod had asked him a question. “I- uh...” He gave a minute shake of his head, just to bring some focus back into it. “The meeting with the Carruthers is tomorrow. Mother, Tilly and I are leaving in the morning. Their estate is in East Trevithall. Should take us a couple hours to get there.” He caressed the side of Pod's face with his finger as he spoke, tracing the line of his jaw. Maker, he was handsome, so handsome- he leaned in, running his lips down that sharp angle, nipping gently, tasting the sweet earthiness and salt of his skin.

“Will the girl be there?”

Tristan nodded, humming against Pod's neck, feeling the warmth of the pulse point in his throat against his lips. “She's always there. They're going to leave us alone this time.”

“Alone?”

“Mmhmm.” Tristan moved further down, mouthing the line of his collarbone. “It's customary. She'll probably give me a tour of the gardens. Apparently, I'm supposed to court her.”

Pod's fingers twitched slightly on his back. “Is that so?”

“Oh, yes,” Tristan scoffed. “She'll probably expect me to bring her flowers or some sort of trinket. Or read her some poetry. I ran across Fred Penwith the other day in Ostwick Proper. He was telling me about a poem he wrote all by himself to give to the Dunmere girl. Can you believe it? Fred, a poet. What is this world coming to.” He lifted his head to look at Pod, and his amused smile instantly died on his lips. Pod's brows were knit in a frown, his mouth pressed tight. “What?” Tristan's heart tightened as he anxiously searched his face. “What's wrong?”

Pod shook his head, looking away. “Nothing. 'S fine.”

“No, it's not fine.” Tristan bit his lip, cursing himself. He should have known better than to start talking about his soon-to-be betrothed. He'd tried to make light of it, but they both knew there was no making light of something such as this. He knew how much it hurt Pod to watch him go to all those arranged meetings, even when he tried his best to hide it. And how could he not hurt? Would Tristan not hurt the same if Pod was to be married to someone else?

Tristan cupped his cheek, gently bringing his gaze back to him. Pod's eyes, dark and deep like bottomless wells, peered back at him, straight through him under his furrowed brows. Maker, but he hated to see him frown. “I won't go,” he said in a soft whisper. “Right? I won't go. I'll stay here tomorrow.”

Pod gazed at him for a few long moments. “What will you tell your mother?”

“That I'm sick,” Tristan shrugged. “That East Trevithall is a dreadful place and I want to be nowhere near it. That I want to call the whole thing off. That no amount of sangria or desserts or whatever else they serve during those meetings will convince me to marry a Carruthers, or anyone else.” He pushed a loose strand of jet black hair behind Pod's ear. “Anyone but you.”

He had expected Pod to laugh or scoff, but he only returned his mild, and admittedly bad, jests with a stern look. “You have to go.”

“What? No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do. You can't tell your mother all that. It will only make things worse.” He arched a brow. “You can't always pretend to be ill, either.”

“Can’t I?” Tristan's brows winged high on his forehead. “Oh, it's on. I'll become the sickliest person in all of Ostwick, just you wait.”

Pod's frown deepened. “You have to go. If only to placate her.”

“No. I'm not going.” Pod opened his mouth in protest, but Tristan cut him short. “I said I'm not going. And that's final.”

“Tristan-”

“Kiss me.” Tristan tilted his chin up defiantly, threading his fingers through Pod's hair. He didn't want to talk about his mother, or the Carruthers, or anything else. His moments with Pod were precious few. He wouldn't waste them talking about nonsense. “Just kiss me.”

Pod sighed low, leaning down to brush his lips over Tristan’s. “You're one stubborn bastard, you know that?” he murmured.

Tristan hummed, folding under his touch. Those lips- those hands- he'd never get enough of him. Never ever. He'd do anything to be close to him, within his reach, for as long as he could. He brought Pod's hand up to his mouth, nuzzling his palm. “I love your hands,” he sighed, pressing kisses to his fingertips. “You have beautiful hands.”

“You are beautiful,” Pod whispered, gently bumping his nose to his. Then, his lips quirked in a smile. “This hand was on a horse's rump just before you came, by the by.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes, then caught Pod's thumb between his teeth. “If you think a horse's rump will stop me, you're thoroughly mistaken, serrah,” he mumbled around his finger.

Pod let out a soft, throaty chuckle, and Void take him if that wasn't the most dizzying sound Tristan had ever heard. “You're an idiot.”

“I'm your idiot,” Tristan breathed, heart swelling in his chest as he drew Pod's lips down to his. “I'm yours.”

Tristan stumbled out of the thick warmth of the tavern and into the heavy drizzle that had started to fall. His stomach was churning, his head reeling. A cold, grey day had barely started to dawn. He glanced above him at the pub sign, a painted silver tankard swinging lazily on its hinges, raindrops dribbling from its curved edges onto the stone pavement. Lively music was still drifting from inside, but Tristan had coin for neither drink nor another round of Wicked Grace. His hand in the last few games had been bad; the worst he’d had in days. He’d lost all his silver, and in the end had had to bet his fine dwarven pocket watch. He’d lost that, too, miserably. He should have known better by now than to rely on his luck.

He shivered as he retreated further into his coat and staggered up the slope that led to Ostwick’s Upper District. Carriages were waiting by the main square, and a few drivers’ gaze strayed in his direction as he passed, but Tristan walked hurriedly along. If he' d had any sense left, he would have thought to save some silver for the ride home. It couldn’t be helped now, he supposed. It was fortunate, in a way, that he had decided against taking a horse to town this time. He wasn’t sure if he’d been able to resist betting that as well. He’d done that already with another horse, that chestnut Marcher courser, almost two months past. His heart had bled to see it taken away like that, but the other man had won the game, fair and square. Mother had been so furious when he’d returned home without it, he was sure she would disinherit him and kick him out that time. Not even Tilly’s intervention had been enough to calm her. Their arguments had become worse as of late, infinitely worse. He'd much rather spend his days at the pub than at that stiff, suffocating shithole that was his home.

Tristan let out a heavy sigh when he saw the gilded iron gates of the Trevelyan manor coming into view. He was drenched to the bone, and the steady pattering of the rain did nothing to clear his head from the booze and the smoke. Perhaps he should start taking Sea Spray again whenever he went to town. He would never gamble his dapple grey stallion; that, at least, Tristan was sure of. But Sea Spray reminded him of sunny days and salty breeze, of skimming stones, of sand and sea under his toes, and… him. And his was a memory Tristan could do well without. If only his image wasn’t there, lurking just behind his eyelids every moment of the bloody day unless he was well and truly sloshed.

He reached for the flask in his coat pocket, taking a long sip as the guards swung the gates open. The high white and grey walls of the manor stood tall and proud before him, the rain gliding down its grey slated roof and falling in rivulets down the smooth polished stone. Instead of walking up to the main entrance, he circled the garden, walking to the back kitchen door. He couldn’t risk his Mother taking notice of him. His head was pounding, and forcing himself to listen to yet another one of her endless tirades was more than he could bear at that moment. Besides, Nelly might already be up. She might even make him one of her ginger and elfroot concoctions, those that always managed to take his headache away and sort his upset stomach.

Water was boiling in a pot when the kitchen door retreated readily under his hand. The smell of fresh tea and biscuits wafted in the air, drops of condensation arcing slowly down the foggy glass windows. Tristan froze at the doorway, blinking.

“So,” his mother said, slowly rising from her seat by the large kitchen table. “The prodigal son returns.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi if you fancy! :)


	29. In Water Waist Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Remember when I said this chapter would be up soon? .... yeah. Turns out it took about 27423471 years to finish and edit, and I'm still not 100% happy with it, but if I stare at it any longer my eyes will probably self immolate. Anyway. I hope you like! 
> 
> Quick recap: Cole is helping Tristan navigate his dream and memories, and encouraged him to follow the thread that might lead him to what he's looking for and escape the nightmare. The first part of that memory sequence was Podrick, Tristan's first love. Now he's about to confront his mother. 
> 
> Before we dive ahead, I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos on this fic. I always love hearing from you. <3

“I see you’ve found your way back home.”

Tristan returned his mother’s scrutinizing gaze levelly, straightening where he stood. Her dark brown hair, streaked with grey at the temples, was already brushed and pinned up, the blue dress she was wearing crisp, freshly pressed. Her lips a straight line, her features placid, as if carved in stone. Nelly was dressed in her usual grey dress, her white apron fastened around her waist, head bent over the stove. She averted her eyes as soon as their gazes mate, returning to stirring tea leaves in the pot. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Tristan forced a nonchalant spring to his step as he peeled off his damp coat and tossed it on a chair before him. “I’d say I’m glad I’m back, but I’d be lying.” He walked around the table, and only then did he notice the three fully armed guards standing by the door. His steps faltered just a hair. Why the Void were there guards at the door? Inside the kitchen? What was -

No. He wouldn’t give his mother the satisfaction of seeing his confusion. He made his way to the cupboards, studiously avoiding glancing at the guards as he rummaged through them.

“You’ve been gone for two days. Two days of debauchery, I’m sure, and Maker knows what else.” Mother waited for a moment, tongue held tightly behind her teeth as she studied him. “You were supposed to be at the Trenwith estate yesterday evening.”

Tristan winced inwardly. He’d entirely forgotten about that. He opened a dark brown jar, sniffing its content. Raisins. “Evidently, I had better things to do.” He placed the jar back in the cupboard and reached for another. “Debauching one’s self requires a great deal of dedication, you know.”

Mother huffed in contempt. “Have you any idea how humiliating it was, waiting for you for hours, having to make up excuse after excuse only for you to never show up? Lady Trenwith and her daughter were appalled. You made a mockery of both myself and your sister. And yourself, of course, yet I hardly believe you care about that anymore.”

Tristan didn’t doubt he had brought them to an uncomfortable position. Mother had done her best to arrange that blasted meeting. The Trenwiths were far lower in the social ladder than the Trevelyans- Blight, they had only started being invited to the Teyrn’s Grand Ball but a decade before- but after the fiascos with the Carruthers and the Cardews, most other houses had withdrawn their proposals. He was far from an eligible bachelor now, if he ever was. That was all well, as far as Tristan was concerned, yet he still regretted not going to the meeting. He had no intention of making a good impression on the Trenwiths or anyone else, of course, but opportunities to embarrass his mother were becoming harder and harder to come by. Oh, well. He would have to settle for petty jabs, then.

“You don’t say,” he drawled in an uninterested tone. “Must have been devastating for you.”

He sensed her bridling at his mocking tone, her eyes gliding over him in contempt. “Have you even bothered to glance at yourself in a mirror?”

Tristan let out a huff as he reached for another jar. He opened it slowly, fishing out a biscuit. “No. Have you? You look terrible. Perhaps a drink or two might do you some good.”

Mother’s nostrils flared. “Have you nothing at all to say for yourself?”

“Oh, I have plenty.” He leaned against the counter, chewing, the large jar nestled under his arm. Her glare was so sharp it might have flayed him on the spot, but he refused to lower his eyes. He flashed her a tight smile. “I am hungry, tired, and in dire need of a bath. Thirsty, too. Nelly, fetch me a cup of tea, will you?”

Nelly, who was pouring tea in Mother’s cup, froze where she was. She glanced uneasily at the other woman, whose hands were balled into fists at her sides. “My lord,” she muttered, turning around for a new cup, when Mother’s voice stopped her.

“Ellen, stay where you are.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, reaching for another biscuit. “What does one have to do to get a cup of tea in his own house?”

“Your insolence, Tristan, knows no bounds,” Mother uttered tightly, weariness creeping into her voice. “I’ve had enough of you humiliating yourself and dragging our family name through the mud.”

“If someone is humiliating themselves, Mother, that would be you. Denying your son a cup of tea. What’s next? Are you going to make me brew my own tea? Whatever will good society say?” He shot her a perplexed frown, popping the last of his biscuit in his mouth.

Mother’s lips were pinched bloodless when she glanced at the guards by the door. She took in a deep breath, straightening up even more. Stark and stiff under the stark and stiff fabric of her dress. “I have spoken with Revered Mother Adalene in the Wildervale monastery. You are to be taken there today. As soon as you arrive, you’ll start training as a Templar.”

Tristan’s blood froze in his veins. He blinked, blinked again, his breath growing shallow. He must have misheard. Surely, that was it. “The Templars? Are you mad?” he said, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t you think I’m a little too old for that?”

Mother’s lips tightened. “The Revered Mother agreed to make an exception for you. On account of your circumstances.”

His gaze flicked to the guards, who had now shifted into position. “I- is this a joke? Are you joking?”

“I have tried to talk with you, Tristan. Reason with you. You refuse to listen.” She shook her head slowly, a frown darkening her features. She almost managed to look remorseful. “Perhaps the Templars will succeed where I have failed.”

“Reason?” he hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits. Anger rushed like an avalanche past his numbing disbelief. “When have you ever tried to reason with anyone? Ordering people about, you mean - that’s more like it. Is there anybody whose life you haven’t tried to exert your power upon? Something you haven’t tried to control?”

“Is that what you think this is about? Control?”

“You’re about to ship me off to the Templars simply because I refuse to do your bidding,” Tristan spat, setting the jar back on the counter with a thud. “Is that my punishment for wanting to live my life as I see fit? For not wanting to be mated off like- like _cattle?_ ”

“Tristan Remy Trevelyan,” she enunciated, fixing him with a hard glare, “it is your duty to behave in a way that befits your station and your name. It is all of our duty to do what we must to preserve the status of this family. You should know this, better than anyone.”

“So my options are, what- either do as you say, or go to the Templars?”

“If you put it this way, then yes. These are precisely your options.”

“In that case, then,” he replied, dusting crumbs off his fingers as he pushed himself upright, “fuck my duty. And, most importantly, _fuck_ this family.”

A stunned silence fell in the wide room. Nelly’s mouth fell slightly agape before she brought her hand over it. Mother flinched visibly only for a quick moment before she regained her composure. “How dare you use that sort of language in this-”

“I’ll use whatever language I damn well please,” he snarled. “It’s not like I belong here anymore, eh? I think I stopped belonging a long time ago. In fact, I’ve been wondering why it took you so long to finally show me the door. That seems to be your specialty with anybody that displeases you.”

“Tristan.” Just that. His name. A warning. Tristan could see the tendons in her neck tensing as she watched him, her jaw clenching.

“Yes, that’s what you’re good at,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Kicking out anybody that dares to cross you. Tossing people in the street once you’ve decided they’re not worth your gold. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?” Tristan's nails dug deep into his palms. Mother kept watching him, unblinking. They both knew what he was about to say, but she made no move to stop him. The challenge in her gaze was unmistakable. Tristan took a shaky breath. “It’s what you did to Sten Kaylen and his family. Isn’t it? And for what?” His throat was burning, rage and grief choking him until he could scarcely breathe. “Just because their son was unfortunate enough to get involved with me?”

Mother’s eyes widened, an idea of a flush creeping up her cheeks. Her eyes darted to the guards before settling on him again. “Tristan,” she started, “for the last time-”

“Abel,” Tristan turned to one of the guards behind him, “you remember Podrick, don’t you? Tall, black hair, worked at the stables? He trained that brown gelding you always take when you go to town on errands. And you, Hart. You’ve been to the Crandock estate. You’ve met Sten Kaylen and his wife. Good people. Honest people. Hard working. And now- Void knows where they’ve ended up now. All because Pod and I-”

“Stop this,” his mother hissed. “Stop this at once. Do not speak that name in my-”

“I loved him.” The sudden declaration startled even him. He could feel all eyes in the room piercing him like arrows, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was way beyond caring. He stood tall, holding his ground, meeting his mother's gaze levelly even as his eyes filled and overflowed. Maker, one year. One entire year since he’d seen him last, and the pain was as astringent now as it had been then. All the brandy and whisky in the world wasn’t enough to numb it, and Void take him if he hadn’t tried. Tried to drown himself in that makeshift oblivion, day after day, hoping that when he got washed up on the other side, it would all be gone. That he would somehow wake up one morning and everything would be but a distant dream.

So much for hoping.

He angrily scrubbed his tears away, glaring at her. “I loved him,” he said again, “and you punished him for it. Punished us both. Wasn't it enough for you to know that you have the power to ruin my own life? Did you really have to ruin his as well?”

“You forced my hand.” His mother looked back at him defiantly. She didn’t seem to care about the guards behind them anymore. Everyone had known about it all along, but now that it was finally out in the open, she clearly saw no reason to dance around it. Never one to mince words, Esme Trevelyan. “You can play the victim all you like, but don’t you ever deny your part in this. Consorting with a commoner? A stable hand?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “It could never lead anywhere, and you knew it. Yet you kept at it. The scandal your actions have procured is enough to last us a lifetime. If you ever thought of anybody but yourself, you could see how your antics reflect on the reputation of our family, that of your own sister-”

“I’m the one who thinks only of myself? Me? When have you ever thought about anybody but yourself and your bloody reputation?” He wiped his nose on his shoulder, fixing her with a narrowed eyed glare. “You can’t stand anybody to be happy, can you?”

“Happiness has nothing to do with one being loyal to their family and their duty,” Mother said sharply, proudly. “I never let that influence my actions, and neither should you.”

“As if everything you’ve done has been for duty and loyalty,” he spat, packing as much derision as he could into the words. “You know nothing about loyalty. You’re just hateful and miserable and alone, and you want everybody else to be miserable and alone as well-”

“That is enough.” His mother’s voice was cold and harsh. “I have had enough. This stops now.”

With a quick nod from her, the guards pounced on him, quick, grabbing him by the arms. Tristan blinked, stunned for a moment before he fought back. “Hey! Let go!” He tried to yank his arm away, but it was no use. The more he writhed, the firmer the hold of the guards on him grew. Their strong fingers dug into his muscles through the fabric of his doublet, keeping him in place. He grunted and swore under his breath, twisting and writhing. “Let go of me, Maker damn you-”

Nelly took a tentative step towards his mother. “My lady, please,” she said, holding the edges of her apron in a white-knuckled grip. “They’re hurting the boy.”

“He isn’t a boy.” Her gaze on him was steel gliding over ice, stone grinding against iron; cold. Unrelenting. “He’s a man grown. And soon he will learn to act as one.”

“For fuck’s sake-” He scowled at his mother, his face twisted in outrage, sweat gathering underneath his collar. “If Father were still alive, he’d never have let this come to pass. He would have stopped it. He would have stopped you-”

“I’m glad Eric isn’t here.” Mother’s lips were pressed in a line, her voice barely above a whisper. Tristan thought he saw her fingers trembling only slightly before she gripped the back of her chair. “I am glad. He would have died of shame if he saw what has become of you.”

Her words stabbed him like a dagger in the gut. “Father would never have been ashamed of me,” he growled, although it sounded like a strained sob to his ears. He clung to that statement, as if it were a lifeline. Someone, he told himself, there must be someone in his life other than Tilly that didn't see him as a disappointment. Even if that someone had been gone for so many years, Tristan could barely bring his countenance to mind.

He brushed the hurt away, focused on the anger. Anger was easier. He grabbed it, held it, let it flood him to the brim.“Father would have understood. He wasn't like you. He was better than you, far better-”

"What's going on?"

Tilly was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, staring at them all in confusion. She was still in her nightdress, her long, flaxen hair caught in a braid, her brows gathered in a frown that creased her high forehead. "Mother, what is going on?"

"Ottilie," Mother said slowly, "go back to your room."

"I most certainly will not. Not until someone tells me what is happening."

Hope fluttered in Tristan’s chest. If anyone could bring their mother back to her senses, that was Tilly. "Mother wants to send me to the Templars," he grunted, panting as he tested the grip of the guards on him and found it unyielding.

"She what?" Tilly's eyes widened in shock. When she fixed them on Mother, they were molten steel. "You cannot be serious."

"Ellen, escort Ottilie back to her room."

"Are you not listening to me? I said I'm not going anywhere!" She stepped towards the guards, standing before Tristan like a protective barrier. “Let him go. Let go of him at once.”

“Ottilie,” their mother started, “this doesn’t concern you.”

Tilly spun on her heels, her chin squared and tilted high, pride and fire and ice in the flesh. She crossed her arms before her chest, regarding the other woman levelly. "If he goes to the Templars, I go with him."

Mother stayed silent for a long moment. Her mouth tightened before she spoke. "Hart, take Ottilie back to her room. Abel, Paul. You know what to do."

"Don't you dare move!" Tilly commanded, putting all her authority into her voice. She raised her hand.

The air thickened, snow and ice engulfing the room like a thick blanket. He could hear the guards yelling, Nelly screaming as she grabbed and pulled Mother out of the room, but couldn’t see. Couldn’t discern a single form amidst the tumult. A strong wind whirled and howled, like they were all standing at the top of a mountain. Shards of ice crushed against the glass windows, shattered, covering the ground in a million glittering particles.

When he blinked his eyes open again, ice covered every inch of the space. Snow glittered on the wide work table, the boiling water in the pot on the stove had turned to ice, stalagmites had formed on the edges of the counter. The guards were lying on the floor behind him, unmoving. Nelly and Mother were still huddled outside the room, trembling. Tilly was standing in the middle of the room, pale as a sheet. Swaying lightly, like a flag in the center of open space.

Tristan’s breath misted before his lips as he pushed himself upright, staggering towards her. It was cold, so cold- freezing. He shivered as he stood before her. She glanced at her hands, then at the men lying on the floor before her gaze met his. At that moment, they both knew.

“Tris,” she whispered, voice raw and hoarse before it cracked.

 _I’m sorry_ , his mind screamed. _Forgive me,_ he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. He reached out to her, gathering her in his arms. “It’s alright. It's alright.” He smoothed his palm down her hair, patted her back, spoke soothing words to her, like he used to do when they were children. “It’s going to be alright, Till. I promise. I promise.”

He held her close as she trembled. Closer still as the ground tilted and shifted underneath him once more, as the memory faded, soft and fuzzy around the edges, like fresh cotton and frayed linen. He finally let his arms fall when he was holding nothing but emptying air.

“The Templars took her after,” Cole said softly, his voice barely a whisper. It should have felt like an accusation, but it didn’t. It was merely a statement, a simple acknowledgement of a turn of events.

“They did,” Tristan replied, just as simply. The memory still clung to his skin like ash on his fingertips. No matter how hard he’d tried to brush it off, it refused to go away. It was part of him, as surely as his beating heart was. “They didn’t waste a moment.”

 _Damn them. Maker damn them all._ So often had he said those words, whispered them under his breath, that they felt etched on his tongue. The Templars standing tall before her, placing the shackles on her wrists, as if she were a criminal. At the door of the carriage, she had turned to look at him. Not the manor, not their mother, not Nelly. Him. Her eyes red and darkened by weariness, her features bereft of all colour, awash in the harsh light of an unforgiving dawn.

“They all blamed me,” he said, to no one in particular. “They all talked, the way people do. Said I'd attacked her, forced her to use magic to protect herself. Never to my face, oh, no, not even Mother, but I could see it still.” He could still remember the stray looks his way when they saw him in the street after Tilly had been taken, the gossip that inevitably reached his ears. No one had forgotten his blunders or that one drunken outburst of his at Lord Penwith’s dinner party, the reason to which entirely eluded him right then. Or that other time, at Lady Bolitho’s Wintersend Ball, where he’d had that heated argument with his mother in front of Count Angove and his daughters, and Tilly had had to drag him away and put him in a carriage back home. Or that other time...

He rubbed his eyes, sniffing, pushing the memories back, further back. A drunken fool. A disgrace. Ostwick’s laughing stock. “That’s why I wanted to get her out,” he whispered, bitterness carving a hole in his stomach. “For her, yes, but for me as well. So that I could prove, once and for all, to myself, to her, to the world that I was more. More than what they thought of me. More than what I thought of myself. That there was still-” he paused, clearing his throat when his voice cracked “-still hope for me. For her, too.”

Hope. What a ridiculous notion it had seemed to him, after. After they’d received that letter, with the Ostwick Circle sign embossed on the front of the envelope. A compassionate note claiming that after a difficult battle with a demon, his sister had finally succumbed to possession, and her Templar guardian had been obligated to take action. Mother had had to pull all strings remaining to her for the Chantry to allow for a proper burial. He could still see the suspicious glances at the funeral, hear the words spoken through tight lights and behind spread fans. _A mean and violent drunk,_ many would say when they thought he was out of earshot. _Pushed her down the stairs, he did,_ some would whisper, sipping on their wine. _Poor Esme_ , all would sigh. _To lose one child to magic and another to his own vices_. All of them, watching with keen interest, waiting for the Trevelyan bloodline to crumble and expire with him.

“Whispers, winding, whirling, white-winged winter wrens,” Cole said quietly beside him. “Words hurt as much as stones. More.”

Tristan took a deep breath, pressing his eyes shut when he felt them burning. “I told you there would be no peace to be found here,” he told Cole, not quite able to keep the harshness from his voice. “This has been-” he brushed the corners of his eyes between forefinger and thumb, “- a waste of time.” A waste. Maker. All his life, all of it- why the hell was he still there? Why was he not waking up?

“There’s more to the thread.” Cole’s voice was soft, like an early morning breeze. “It’s not over yet. It’s only just begun.”

Tristan let out a long sigh, steeling himself. He didn’t want to continue- anything but, anything at all- yet there was no other way. He knew it. He had to leave this place somehow. The silence that had fallen around him was deafening. Enough to make his ears bleed. He took a few steps forward, slowly, with effort, like wading through water waist deep. Watched as the last of the light dimmed and faded.

The memories were cold like the sea in midwinter when he dove in headfirst.

“I left soon after,” he said, talking his way past the initial shivers. “There was nothing for me here, not anymore. Not with her gone.” A change of clothes, Tilly’s small looking glass, _Tristan de Lydes_ , as much gold and jewellery as he could safely carry. A handful of dried figs and roasted walnuts for the road. Nelly’s hushed sobs as they said their last farewells by the kitchen door.

“ _Hwegen,_ ” she wept over and over. “Oh, _hwegen._ ” There was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do.

Time rushed past him, a blur. A drunken haze. Markham, Wycome, Hercinia, Ansburg, an estate a few miles south of Starkhaven that he could barely recollect how he’d found himself in. Always one step ahead of the bounty hunters his mother sent after him. Pub after pub, cup after cup, Wicked Grace tables sticky with dried ale. Emptiness. That vast, unending emptiness. The absence that was soon filled with bitterness and rage. That same scorching fire turning to ice. Whisky, ale and brandy to make it thaw and melt, more to keep him under. Drowning, sinking, deeper, faster. More. No thoughts. No memories. They had to be culled, severed, burnt at the stake. Ripped from him. No home, no name, nothing to call his own. No one. He was no one. No one at all.

The smell of fish and ship tar from the docks nearby wafted through the half open window of the tavern. A haggard elven waitress was wiping down a table, while the only other patron was sleeping with his head resting on the bar counter. He had the right idea, Tristan thought. His own head was so heavy, he could have easily done the same. Just to rest his eyes for a bit. He hadn’t slept in a proper bed in days, and that cheap, acidic brew that passed for brandy around these parts was not helping.

He downed his drink, wincing with the sour aftertaste. Kirkwallers wouldn’t know proper brandy if it kicked them right between the eyes.

“Barkeep,” he croaked, raising his mug. “More brandy.”

The man eyed him warily as he wiped down a mug with a cloth second in grime only to the floor. “I’ll need to see some coin from you first.”

Tristan scoffed and rolled his eyes, reaching in his coat for his coin purse. Cursed under his breath when he found it missing. Someone must have snatched it off him at that dice table in Lowtown. Maker damned Kirkwall and those thrice damned street urchins-

He carefully withdrew his hand from his pocket and flashed the barkeep a smile he hoped was winning. “How about a very small cup, then?”

The night air stank of murky sea water and rotting fish guts when he was thrown out into the street by the bar’s guard. At least the stocky Rivaini had had the courtesy of letting him go with a blow to the side of the head and a warning instead of trying to stick a knife between his ribs. He glanced at the muddy streets that extended beyond the bar, and that would likely serve as his bed for the night, and let out a soft sigh. His back wouldn’t thank him for it come the morrow, that was certain.

He raised his coat collar as he walked down the crowded, dimly lit streets, his gaze flicking past the deals that were taking place at every corner. Drugs, weapons, poisons; whatever it was you were looking for, you could probably find it at one of the Docks’ corners. At good prices, too, all things considered.

He leaned against a wall, fishing in his inner pocket for his pipe. Lit it with his flint and dagger, took a long draught. Sighed when he felt the tension slowly melting off his shoulders, his headache subsiding somewhat. The _moldac_ was hot and sweet as it glided down his throat. Smoking leaf laced with the barest hints of opium, smuggled from the Anderfels; he’d won it off a sour-faced Starkhavener at Wicked Grace a while back and had soon taken a liking to it. His head was still heavy from the blow and the cheap liquor, but at least it was in the right place now.

“Five sovs,” he heard a man saying at a nearby corner.

“Five?” the other asked incredulously. “It was only four last time!”

The first man shrugged. “Mage war’s bad for trade. Got to make ends meet.”

“Andraste’s holy knickers.” A short huff, the scruff of fabric as hands dug into pockets for the required amount. “Is it decent this time, at least? The last one you gave me was diluted. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“Listen, mate,” the dealer snapped, “my stuff’s the best in Kirkwall, straight from the dwarves in Kal-Sharok. You don’t like it, you can go back to Ostwick and beg outside the Chantry for a dose, for all I care.”

Ostwick? Kal-Sharok? Tristan’s ears pricked up. What was the man buying? Drugs? Poison? But what did the Chantry have to do with it? Unless...

The light blue vial that shone momentarily in the man’s palm before he shoved it in his pocket could only be one thing. Lyrium. A Templar. From the Ostwick Circle, possibly. Tristan’s hackles rose in a flash, his pulse quickening. Could it be? Was it a sign?

Before he could rightly say what he was doing, he had pushed off the wall, doggedly following the man through the dark, twisting alleys.

With his cheek pressed firmly against the wall and Tristan's dagger at his throat, the Templar made a pretty sight.

"I don't know anything more," the man whimpered. "I swear I've told you everything I know-"

“So. Let me get this straight. There was an uprising in the Ostwick Circle and your Knight Captain decided to simply execute the mages he thought had started it. No imprisonment, no trials, no intervention from the Chantry. You expect me to believe that?” The man nodded, trembling.

Tristan’s stomach tightened. If what the Templar had said was true, it changed everything he’d known about Tilly’s death. Everything the Chantry had told them. She hadn’t been possessed by a demon, she hadn’t failed to pass a bloody test, she hadn’t been tested by the Knight Captain and a Revered Mother and found to be “beyond hope of recovery”. She was cut down, slaughtered like- like an _animal_. His hand holding the dagger was trembling, nicking the Templar’s neck where the blade touched him.

"The Circle was a shambles," the man said, wincing. "There was no way of knowing who was possessed. Templars were being killed left and right. The mages were looking for every opportunity to attack us-"

Tristan clicked his tongue, twisting the man's arm behind his back. "None of that," he growled. "What about the Trevelyan girl? She was there, wasn’t she?"

"The Trev-" the man dared a sideways glance at him over his shoulder, swallowing thickly. His face was ashen and haggard, his hands cold, his fingers twitching lightly. All signs of lyrium withdrawal. "She was thought to be among the instigators. The Knight Captain executed her himself."

Tristan's blood bubbled in his veins, his pulse pounding with rage. Damned Templars. Maker damn them all. He pressed his blade against the pulse point in the man's throat. "Was she proven guilty? Was anyone?"

"I-" the man paused, wetting his lips. "She-" He whimpered again when Tristan twisted his arm tighter. "I don't know, I don't know, the Captain said she was, we never questioned him-" He pressed his eyes shut, his face twisting in agony. "Please. I just want to leave that life behind me. Please."

"At least you have a life to leave behind," he hissed, twisting the man's arm enough to break it. "The mages you killed don't have that luxury." Maker, but he felt sick. He forced down the bile that was rising up in his throat as he asked, "Where's your Captain now?"

"Last I heard he would be at the Conclave. That's all I know. Please-"

The Conclave. Void take him. That was but a week away. The man slumped to his knees when Tristan brought the hilt of his dagger down on his temples. He walked away, sheathing his blade, then turned back with a disgusted sound. The ship for Jader would be leaving at dawn, and he had no coin for passage. He rummaged the Templar’s pockets for his coin purse. The lyrium bottle shone iridescent in his palm when he fished it out. He took that, too. Allowed himself a moment to watch it sink beneath the murky waters of the docks after he’d tossed it over. Let the bastard scramble for that lyrium he so needed, he thought, spitting on the ground before he turned away.

The Conclave. Yes. That's where he would go. His life was forfeit, but her death didn’t have to be. He would unveil the man's crimes for everyone to see, if it was the last thing he did. Or he would kill him with his own bare hands. Either way, one of them would be lying face down in a shallow ditch come next week. With some luck, it would be both.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Tristan blinked blearily at the snarling woman that had dragged him out of his cell, only to toss him in the middle of the dank dungeon. She held herself straight and stiff, circling him like a vulture. A Chantric. Every one of her movements told him she’d interrogated countless people before him. A Templar? No. The Watchful Eye carved on her breastplate. A Seeker?

Chantrics, Templars, Seekers- same dogs, different coats. His temper flared when his gaze met hers. “If you mean to kill me, go ahead and be done with it,” he snarled right back at her. “Spare me the drivel.”

She bent down, her eyes on a level with his. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Everyone but you.”

“Everyone?” It was hard to hide his blatant disbelief. Every single person attending- everyone? But there had been dozens, hundreds of people. Including Divine Justinia. All the high and mighty Knight Commanders, most First Enchanters from across Thedas, representatives from all the powerful families. And now they were all gone? All but he? Even Knight Captain-

“Maker.” The bastard was dead. Tristan could have wept for joy.

If the woman noticed his confoundment, she gave no sign. “Who are you? What business did you have at the Conclave?”

Tristan simply gaped at her for a long moment. “You think I did it?” he asked, barely suppressing the mad laughter that threatened to rise to his lips. If he started laughing now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop. Him, destroying the Conclave- he couldn’t even begin to explain to her how absurd the notion was. He was barely capable of lacing up his own shirt most days, let alone organise a mass assassination.

The woman grabbed his hand, green light sputtering from the mark in his palm. “Explain this.”

Rage jolted through him suddenly, like a shockwave, with the feel of her gauntleted hand around his shackled wrist- shackles that she and hers had put him in. He yanked his hand back, out of her grasp. “Touch me again and see what happens,” he growled, his mouth twisting in a scowl. It was an empty threat, bound as he was, but he spat it at her anyway. He’d had more than his fill of people pushing and pulling and prodding him since the moment he’d opened his eyes in that blasted prison, and he hadn’t had a drink since the day before and his hands were already starting to shake, and if one more person tested his patience that day he swore to the Maker he would-

The woman scowled, her hand straying to her sword hilt. The redhead that had been observing all that while held her friend back. “Cassandra,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly gentle. “We need him.”

They both turned to look at him. He returned their look with a confused frown. What need could anyone have of someone such as he?

Rifts. So that was what the Herald of Andraste was supposed to do. Fight demons and close rifts. Simple enough. The bloody mark on his hand ached abominably at times, and his sleep was all the worse for it; still, he slept in a bed. A bed of his very own, for the first time in… months, Maker, years- and _food_. Morning, noon and night, no questions asked. He was getting stronger, there was meat back on his bones, his duties kept him off the bottle most of the time. Servants. He had servants again. He’d forgotten what a luxury it was to have someone building his fire for him, mending his clothes, making his bed. If it weren’t for the people pestering him all day, it would have been the best deal he could have gotten for himself- save for the glowing mark on his palm that was trying to kill him, of course, but that was only a minor inconvenience.

And yet.

His mother would soon find out where he was. It wouldn’t be long before word of the Herald of Andraste being a Trevelyan reached her ears. And then she’d send for him. Everyone would know, know about him, what was said of him, what he’d done, where he’d been. Including his advisors, who didn’t think very highly of him as it was. If she promised them enough gold, they wouldn’t hesitate to hand him over, Tristan was sure of that.

Right.

Close the damned Breach so the mark stopped spreading, was what he should do. Get the mages to help, like Leliana had suggested- she seemed reasonable enough, and he would sooner gnaw his own left arm off and toss that at the Breach rather than aid the Templars- and then get out of that place. Slip away in the night, and none would be the wiser. Just get. The hell. Away.

The walls of the Redcliffe Village chapel shook with the force of the blast from the rift that had opened in its center. Tristan didn’t remember ever seeing such a small space packed so full of demons. He paused at the door, blinking, his hands flying to his daggers by instinct. The man hurling spell after spell at a screaming despair demon didn’t seem half as fazed as he was.

“Good! You’re finally here! Now help me close this, will you?”

It took Tristan a couple of seconds to snap his mouth that had fallen slightly agape shut and raise his hand. The rift crackled and writhed as it collapsed in on itself, dousing the chapel in green light, a shower of iridescent particles that rained over the, unarguably, most handsome man Tristan had seen. In a while. A long while. Perhaps ever. He shook his head gently. Was he seeing things? How much wine had he had to drink the previous night? He could have sworn it was only two cups. Maybe three. Four, if he stretched it.

The mage dusted his robes, straightening. Piercing grey eyes, almond shaped and heavy lidded, fixed themselves on him. Tall, dark haired, bronze skinned, voice rich and smooth like softened caramel. And his robes; Tristan had never before seen the like. Swaths of fabric arranged in intricate patterns, flowing as he moved like there was a light breeze blowing when he walked, even though not a window was open. And the richness of the colours themselves, the details- dark blue silk, soft brown leather, the thread of gold embroidery on his collar shining as he moved, the jewelled rings on his long fingers catching the light.

“How do you do that, exactly?”

Tristan hadn’t realised he’d been staring until the man spoke again. “How do I do what?” he echoed, and almost kicked himself. His eloquence would be his own undoing one of those days.

The man’s brows gathered in confusion for a moment before he laughed- _laughed!_ Blight, there were dead demons all around them, their mangled corpses still unclaimed by the Fade, Chantry sisters just a few paces beyond the chapel door, not to mention the threat of mass hysteria should anyone in the village realise what was going on in there, and that man was _laughing_. Void and ashes, who was he? Where had he come from?

The man tilted his head to the side, studying him. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom! Rift closes. Thought it would take a little bit more work than that, if I may be frank.”

Suspicion made Tristan narrow his eyes. Was that mage… mocking him? Trying to make him look like a fool before his companions? He must have been. Tristan sniffed, straightening his back, assuming his most stern expression. “It’s much more complicated than you make it sound,” he said indignantly. “Of that, I can assure you.” An outright lie. He hadn’t the first notion how the blasted thing worked.

Tristan’s bluntness had the exact opposite effect on the man than he had expected. The mage studied him thoughtfully for another breath, as if he hadn’t even heard Tristan’s curt response, then advanced confidently towards him. ‘Advanced’ wasn’t the right word. Strode. Glided. Swayed- yes, that was more like it. “May I?” he asked, glancing at Tristan’s palm.

Tristan tensed. He didn’t like it when strangers touched him. Too many times in the last few years of his life he’d been beaten up, spat on, sworn at, threatened at dagger point, pushed and shoved about, manhandled. Many more, ever since becoming the Herald, that people had touched him in awe or fascination, disgust or mistrust, prodded at the mark to uncover its secrets, tested it, half-yanked it off him. No. Suffice to say he did _not_ like people touching him.

His arm moved before he could stop it.

The man’s fingers, when he took his palm in his, were warm, petal-soft, careful. The trickle of magic he poured into the mark was light as a feather, warm like a caress. His eyes met Tristan’s, holding his gaze by the sheer brightness of their intent. He looked at him, straight at him, not at the mark, not at his followers, not at the mess all around them. Him.

“Fascinating,” he said softly.

“What is?”

Tristan lifted his eyes from the book he’d been reading. “Have you heard about the lost city of Barindur? It’s said that Dumat destroyed it after their king lost his favour. It's supposed to be one of the world's greatest mysteries.”

“Of course I’ve heard about it,” Dorian scoffed. “In fact, I’ve more than heard about it. I wrote an essay on the legends surrounding the city when I was eleven. The lack of knowledge on Tevinter history in the South never fails to surprise me.”

“Oh, yes. I’d almost forgotten how rudimental Southern education is compared to Tevinter.” Tristan closed his book and set it atop the other tomes on the book stall, drawing close enough to Dorian to place his arm on his waist, but Dorian smoothly edged back. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re not alone,” Dorian whispered, looking around him before letting his gaze drop back to the book he was holding.

Tristan glanced at the half empty square. Montsimmard was one of the few towns still standing that side of Orlais, and he, Dorian, Cassandra and Varric had stopped there on their way back to Skyhold from the Emerald Graves to replenish their food stores and rest the horses for a bit. It was little after dawn, so the town was about as quiet as a graveyard. Cassandra had soon left them to visit the nearest smithy, and Varric… Maker knew where Varric had disappeared to -the nearest tavern, probably. That left Dorian and Tristan enough time to browse the solitary book stall in the wide market square. It was a pitiful thing, with only a couple poetry collections and more Chantry books than anyone could have a need for, but it was something.

“There’s no one here,” he said, returning to Dorian. Instead of a response, Dorian nodded towards the book merchant who was dozing off on his chair with his hat over his face. “Ah. I see," Tristan replied, letting his arm fall. "Well, I’d better just go back to reading then.” He picked up a book at random, idly flipping through it. He brushed his chin with his knuckle, sneaking a glance at Dorian who seemed engrossed in his own reading. Tristan discreetly cleared his throat, taking a small step towards him.

“ _The fountains mingle with the river,_ ” he started quietly, pretending to read from the page, “ _and the rivers with the ocean, the winds of Heaven mix for ever with a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single, all things by a law divine, in one spirit meet and mingle - why not I with thine?_ "

Dorian let out a quiet harrumph, not looking up from his book. “Why indeed. Anyone who spouts such nonsense is probably doomed to eternal solitude.”

“Are they?” Tristan put the book back down, next to a vase of yellow roses that the merchant had set on his stall. He picked up one flower, then held it before Dorian with a bow and a flourish. “I beg to differ.”

Dorian glanced at the blossom, then at him. “What on earth are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m courting you.”

“You _what?_ ” Dorian’s eyes widened, his cheeks darkening. “You’re joking, yes? Did you hit your head?”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Just take the thing, will you?” Dorian gingerly plucked the rose from his fingers, a curious frown creasing his brow. He glanced warily about them as Tristan straightened and cleared his throat once more. " _See the mountains kiss high Heaven, and the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven if it disdained its brother-_ "

“Oh, Maker,” Dorian murmured, his blush growing even hotter as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “He was _not_ , in fact, joking.”

“ _And the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea-”_

"Mad. The man's gone mad.”

Tristan moved behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him close. “ _What are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?_ ” He perched his chin on Dorian’s shoulder, smiling up at him. “Hm?”

“You are-” Dorian huffed in amusement. “The worst. The absolute worst. Whatever did I see in you.”

“I thought that’s what you liked about me," he said, quirking a brow. “My wit and charm, remember?”

"Of course. How could I forget." Dorian let out a soft, throaty chuckle as he leaned in for a kiss. His lips were warm, tender, soft like velvet, parting readily under his, the subtle taste of his morning tea still lingering on his tongue. “No more poetry, now," he whispered with a smile. "Or I might change my mind.”

Tristan smirked against his lips, his pulse fluttering as he hugged him tighter. “Can’t make any promises.”

The world grew soft and quiet, warm and fuzzy around the edges.

Tristan’s heart thumped in a smooth, steady rhythm, his gaze fixed on the memory before him that refused to dissipate. He could still remember the light sting of the rose’s thorns on his fingertips, the rich scent of the blossom mingled with Dorian’s heady cologne, the shape of Dorian’s smile as it pressed against his lips. He remembered, like he was still there, like time hadn’t moved since that day, that moment. Like it refused to.

All this while, while swimming through the ocean of his memories, through the highs and unfathomable lows, he was constantly being tugged forward, ever forward, a race for survival and self destruction at the same time. Yet now, the tugging had suddenly stopped. That merciless pull had somehow lessened. Slackened. The noose around his throat relaxing. In that memory, he realised, he wasn’t simply surviving, or pushing his luck and his limits to see when he would finally snap. He could just… be.

“Peace is found when you least expect it,” Cole whispered beside him. He was standing close, his face obscured by the shadow of his hat. “In the midst of chaos, there is quiet. In the darkest of places, the light shines the brightest. The wind moves the slowest in the eye of the storm.”

“But… how?” Tristan whispered, his throat clenching. “After everything I've done? After everything… ”

_If he knew everything, would he want me still?_

It was a familiar thought, yet it stung all the same. Cole gazed at him for a moment, thoughtfully, as if he were asking whether the sky was blue. “You’re fond of your guilt," he said softly. "It reminds you you're still there. Still sane. _“Monsters and madmen can't be guilty, can they?”_ " He cocked his head slightly to the side, like an inquisitive bird. "You hold it so close, it’s become a part of you. To keep the wonder of suffering alive, it has metamorphosed into you. But you don’t need it. You don’t need it anymore.” Cole laid his palm upon his forearm, his touch gentle and calming. “It wasn’t your fault. You tried to change things, but it didn’t matter. Nothing you did mattered. Let go. Let go of the hurt. I can help.”

 _It’s not that simple_ , Tristan thought. _It can’t be that simple. It shouldn’t._ He opened his mouth to speak, but he was suddenly being tugged forward again, pulled away. Sharply, violently. Forward, forward and down.

The book stall disappeared, the edges of the buildings around them bled swiftly into nothingness just as a heavy darkness fell. “What’s going on?” Tristan glanced about him. “What is this?”

“Not yours,” Cole replied, his fingers on Tristan’s forearm tightening. “Let it go. It’s not yours.”

“What isn’t? What-” He gasped as the ground melted beneath his feet. He caught Cole’s hand, fighting while he was being drawn into a bottomless abyss. Cole caught his hands in both of his, but no matter how firm his hold, Tristan’s fingers kept sliding out of his, one by one.

“I can’t,” Tristan grunted. “I can’t- hold on-”

Cole held his gaze from the precipice, cornflower blue eyes gleaming in the dark like stars. “Be steadfast,” he whispered.

The last of his fingers slipped from Cole’s grasp, and then he was falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hwegen = my dear, pet, darling in Cornish (because I headcanon that Ostwick is basically fantasy Cornwall, lol)
> 
> The poem Tristan was reciting is _Love's Philosophy_ by Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/)! :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!


	30. Heir of the Ruined Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, hiya! :D
> 
> The dream/flashback situation is going strong! There's a couple different POVs in this chapter, and there might also be a little back and forth, so I hope it's not confusing. The second part is a Cole POV, which is small but was very fun to write. I hope you like <3
> 
> ALSO: I drew the boys! You can check them out [here](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/post/622467676934127616/and-ive-never-loved-a-darker-blue-than-the) on my Tumblr :)

Falling. He was falling. A stone sinking in dark waters.

Tristan kicked, pushing himself up with all his might. The more he fought, the faster he sank. The more he tried to escape the pull, the tighter it grew. Down, down. His screams were muffled by water, his limbs growing heavier with each second that passed. Time felt warped, unending and unmoving, while he struggled. Soon he would be out of breath. Soon, he’d grow so weary, he’d never wake up again. He had to get away. He had to reach the surface. He had to-

“Hush, _hwegen_. It’s alright.”

Tristan opened his eyes, panting. His nightshirt was clinging to his skin, slick with sweat. Nelly was sitting by the edge of the bed, her dark brown eyes warm when they met his.

“Nelly,” he whispered, his heart returning to its rightful place. A dream was all it was. A bad dream. Safe. He was safe now. “Nelly,” he said again, taking a breath as he sank back into the pillows. _Nelly, Nelly, Nelly._ Always there, alway close, always within reach. He’d learnt her name before he’d even learnt his own mother’s. Her presence, calm and comforting like a warm blanket on a cold night. 

She leaned over him, the scent of lavender, rosemary and ginger clinging to her clothes. Her lips cool on his fevered brow. 

“Close your eyes _._ Go to sleep.”

Tristan closed his eyes.

* * *

The memories unfurl around him, brush against his skin, frayed linen and rough cotton. The sharp edges of a straw hat, hay and worn leather, the rich susurrus of muslin. Thoughts coiling, unravelling. His? No. Yes? His.

The clop of horse hooves on the narrow dirt road. The roar of waves crashing far below, the sharpest cliff, the greenest grass. He’s riding a little way ahead, the wind in his dark hair, the sun in his eyes. Onyx and ivory, rough and soft, so soft, he smiles. Bright, fierce, fragile, that smile.

 _Don’t go, stay with me, don’t go-_ Hushed whispers in the night, carried by wind, muffled by skin. _Stay for what? For you?_ Rage, sharp, hot, abrasive. Black eyes gleaming in the dark. _What else is there to say? I’m leaving, you’re staying here, I hope she’s happy now, I hope you’re happy._ Words cut deeper than knives. Deeper, far deeper. Down, down and around. A downward spiral. _Your fault, your fault, you and yours-_

 _It wasn’t supposed to happen like this._ If not like this, then how? Cole treads carefully, slowly through the dreams. Dreams only in name. A whirlwind, a storm. They pull him down, the shifting currents. He swims now, faster. He’s closer, so close he can almost feel it, touch it, taste the salt. The waves-

He dips his head under, gulping, breaks through, gasping, inhaling salt water and froth. Where? If not here, then where? Another wave rolls past him, curls over him. A ship, waves crashing hard against its wooden belly. Do ships feel pain? A figure peers over the railing, fingers gripping the carved wood. Sea storm and moonlight, water and fire and ice, etched in polished everite. _Don’t look back- be steadfast- it will all be over soon-_

Pulled under again, deeper. A white stone in the depths of a dark well- he swims towards it. Pebbles falling around him like snow. No- not pebbles. Apple blossoms whirling with the breeze, a midsummer day. A flash of yellow fabric before it disappears from view. Laughter ringing amongst the trees. _The fireworks, they crackle and writhe, green and gold and red and, oh, is that one purple? Jewels on the sky's velvet canopy. Remember when we were little?_ Syrup sticking on his fingers, sugar and spices, corn on the cob. _Never liked corn, you don’t like it either, why did you get it then? -It’s tradition, Tris, don’t frown._ The sun has set long before, it's only shadows now. Shadows and bright lights in the sky. She turns to him and laughs. Swirling colours in her eyes. _I always frown and you tell me not to and you laugh. Then I laugh, too. Who’ll tell me not to when you’re gone?_

Figure it out. Figure it out for yourself. You’re not a child, you’re a man grown, learn to act like one. Trevelyans are made of sterner stuff, are you? _By myself, never was much good, never learned, never had to, never thought I'd have to._ The smooth band burns its shape onto your palm. 

_Hold on to this for me. Keep it safe._ I will. Always.

Cole shakes his head softly. The voices cling to his skin, oil on the surface of the water; "Not mine," he reminds himself. He lets them wash over him, dissolve. His hands are full of lilies. He lets them fall, the delicate petals scattering on the ground like rain. Easy to fall, easier to slide, to slip through the cracks, disappear forever. Hard to get up. Much harder.

Sharp pain jolts through him. Pain and anger and fear. Get up, wake up, run. Run, for they’re coming. _Who's they?_

Cole quickens his step, the clearing but a fading image behind him. Hard to ignore the whispers, so he listens instead. Follows the winding pathways that shimmer before him, lights in the darkness, too bright, blinding. _Where are you?_

A fire is crackling in the distance, flames roaring. A pyre. Herbs and scented oils, the acrid stench of burning flesh and fabric, _smoke clinging to my throat, eyes burning, stomach roiling, cannot throw up, must not._ Smoke and ash, white on black on black. _Look away, look away, must not look, how much longer am I supposed to stand here?_ Sleeping or dreaming, gone, slipping sideways. The Chant grating at his ears, a discordant song. Louder and louder as Cole moves closer, two laments forked and intertwined, a hollow buzz.

“The Light shall lead her safely, through the paths of this world, and into the next.” _The light wraps you in its mortal flame. “_ For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go toward light.” _Abstracted pale mourner_ _, standing that way against the old propellers of the twilight that revolves around you; “_ The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death;” _Speechless, my friend, alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead, and filled with the lives of fire; “_ for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.” _Pure heir of the ruined day._

It changes again, faster this time. Over and over, the path folds in on itself. Cole walks, slow, too slow; he runs. Have to get there before they do. The whispers whirl around him, tea leaves stirring in a pot of boiling water. Lavender and rosemary, ginger and elfroot to soothe an aching belly. It hurts, more, more each day- when will it stop? _Can't turn back the river now, my boy, what's done is done._ She's never coming back, never- _Hush, hwegen. Hush. Close your eyes._

Silence.

Cole stops abruptly. The echo of his footsteps absorbed by the emptiness. Nothing. Nothing there. 

"Where are you?" he says out loud, but the silence sucks up his words like a sponge. "Where?"

  
  
  


* * *

Dorian couldn't tell why he stirred from his sleep but when he did, a pair of pale blue eyes was staring down at him.

He squinted, blinking. "Cole?" 

"He's gone," he whispered. "I can't find him."

Dorian sat up, rubbing gritty eyelashes with his knuckles. It was still dark, strands of moonlight slithering in through the tall windows of Trevelyan’s quarters. In their silver glow, the young man before him looked almost transparent. How on earth had he managed to get past Trevelyan’s guards? Dorian was certain Maighdin would have risked waking the Inquisitor in the middle of the night and receiving the sharp edge of his tongue for her trouble rather than letting someone walk in unannounced. Knowing the boy, though, he could move about entirely unseen if he chose to. If he’d sneaked in somehow, that made it all the more sinister. 

He narrowed his eyes, shifting carefully closer to him on the bed. "Gone?” Dorian whispered, careful not to raise his voice a hair more than it needed to be audible. “Who's gone?"

Cole glanced past him at Trevelyan. "He was there, and then he wasn't. The paths twisted and turned, and then there was nothing." He straightened, worrying his lip. His eyes looked just as transparent as the rest of him, but they fixed themselves on him with unusual intensity. Try as he might, Dorian couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken like this, one on one. Or the last time he had seen him, for that matter.

He blinked again, shaking his head to wake himself up. “I don’t understand. Who are you trying to find?”

“ _Him_ ,” Cole said again, more poignantly this time. “He’s gone. You must help me find him.”

Dorian frowned at him, then turned to look at Trevelyan. He was sleeping soundly beside him, ruffled flaxen hair falling messily over his forehead, his chest rising and falling smoothly with his breaths. He was lying on his side, as he had when they'd lain together for the night, with Dorian pressed up against his back. Dorian reached out, brushing a stray lock away from his brow. He was a light sleeper, so that was usually enough to earn Dorian a sharp sniff or a sleepy hum, but he lay perfectly still. He never usually lay so still when he was sleeping. Curious. 

Dorian gently caught his shoulder and gave it a small shake. “Amatus,” he whispered. “Wake up.” No response. He shook him again, but Trevelyan didn’t even bat an eyelid. Like he had suddenly forgotten how to. A ball of apprehension settled in Dorian’s stomach. “Why isn’t he waking up?” he demanded, turning to Cole. 

“I _told_ you,” the spirit said, shifting impatiently on his feet. “He is not there.”

“But-”

"No time. No time to explain. Go back to sleep." He adjusted his hat on his head. "I'll meet you there."

Dorian blinked at him. The boy- man- spirit- whatever he was, anyway- simply stood there, watching him, waiting. His features were calm, but there was an odd sort of determination in his stare, one that brooked no argument. Dorian glanced at Trevelyan again, who hadn’t shifted an inch. It was curiosity more than anything that made Dorian lie back down on the bed and close his eyes. He doubted sleep would come back easily this time, not when he had Cole staring at him like that and Trevelyan lying there like a limp fish. It could be that he was simply too tired from his travels, but what if what Cole was saying was true? Could it really be that he was gone? And gone where, exactly?

  
  
He was still pondering those questions when he opened his eyes again and lifted his head from the armrest of the silk chaise lounge. He took a deep breath of warm, humid air, heavy with the scents of gladiolus and jasmine. The chess board was right where he had left it, the ivory and red marble pawns almost at the exact same place they were before he'd been woken up. Tower at E5, Horse at F6 and Knight not too far away at C6, circling his opponent’s Queen. The enemy Mage and Pawn threateningly courting his own King. But Dorian already had a plan in mind for how to wriggle away, should the vice tighten. Which it wouldn’t, because defeat at chess was a rare occurrence for him. Barring that one time when he was eighteen and his transgressions the night before had rendered complicated decisions difficult to make- oh, well. Who remembered those times now? Definitely not him. 

He leaned back on the chaise lounge, letting his gaze sweep over the expansive garden and the manor behind it, its high walls glaringly white under the bright Tevinter sun. It belonged to the family of Dimeon Septimus, one of the lead researchers in the Minrathous library. Dorian had spent many a summer evening under that gazebo, sipping on chilled wine and watching the night lillies bob on the surface of the small, crystalline pool in its middle, while he talked with his friend about Entropy magic and the nature of the Fade, among other things. The term “friend” was used very loosely, naturally, considering the nature of their extracurricular activities. He idly wondered what Dimeon could be doing now. Married, possibly. Occupying a prestigious seat in the magisterium, definitely. Enjoying the high life. That was what happened to those who complied, wasn’t it?

Dorian let out a soft sigh, picking up his glass of wine. Rich, dark like blood and deliciously tart; just the way he liked it. He reached for one of the grapes in the crystal bowl next to it when he noticed the young man walking towards him with silent, yet decisive strides. His wide brim hat was obscuring his features, the slight breeze brushing pale blonde strands over his eyes. Eyes so light blue, they looked transparent. Cole. 

He set his glass down hastily, cursing under his breath. He’d let his guard down and almost got sucked back into his own dream. The Fade had a tendency to do that. He needed to be vigilant. Extra vigilant.

… why was Cole there, again?

“You’re very hard to find,” Cole said matter-of-factly as he stood before him. “We need to go now.”

“Yes. Of course.” Trevelyan. Cole had come to him because they needed to find Trevelyan. He stood up, smoothing his robes.“Where are we going?”

“I was hoping you’d know. That’s why I came to you. Glittering, gleaming, the glow to light the path.”

“The path?” Dorian shook his head, squinting at him. “Speak plainly, if you please, I’ve no time for riddles.”

“There are many paths. Too many. I tried to follow, but it's difficult.” Cole stared at him for a moment, eyes wide and round like a bird’s, then let his gaze skitter downwards. He shifted on his feet, picking at the wrappings on his palms. “They’re… bright. He's bright, too. Too bright for comfort, like counting birds against the sun. The flare crackles at its brightest before it is snuffed out.” He worried the inside of his lip. “You’ve seen the paths, some of them, and they don’t blind you. You can help.” 

Dorian gaped at him for a moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose as he took in a deep breath. The more Cole told him, the less sense it all made. If there was one thing he hated the most, it was being one step behind. “Cole,” he said very seriously, “I need you to tell me exactly what happened before you came to me if I am to understand what’s happening.”

“We were together. In his dream. He fell down a hole. Now I can’t find him.”

“... a hole.” Was this tale getting more absurd by the second? It certainly seemed like it. But if Cole was right, if Trevelyan was really gone… But how could it be? He’d been sleeping right there, next to him. It made no sense. It wasn’t unheard of for mages to get lost in the Fade, occasionally, if they strayed too far, but Trevelyan was no mage. Yet, it seemed highly unlikely that Cole would come to him in the middle of the night for no reason. He’d never done it before. From the little he knew of him, he usually did his best to stay out of people’s way. Most didn’t even remember him, sometimes mere minutes after they’d spoken to him. However outrageous his story sounded, Dorian would get to the root of it. He straightened, studying him carefully. “That hole you mentioned; where is it? Where were you last? Before he disappeared?”

“With you. Not _you_ you; you of his head. His memories of you.”

Dorian scrunched his nose in perplexity, trying to ignore the slight flush that crept up his cheeks. “Why on earth would he be taking you along in his memories of- I do hope you two don’t do this very often. There’s-” he cleared his throat, “-quite a lot of them with him and me in rather… compromising positions. Not that I don’t appreciate an audience, but that would be entirely inappropriate under the circumstances.”

Cole blinked. “What is compromising about a position?”

Dorian blinked back. “Ah… perhaps forget I said anything about that. So.” He glanced around him. “Care to tell me what we’re looking for, exactly? I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible. Beauty sleep is sacred, you know.”

Cole stayed silent for a breath, glancing about him. “Down, past, forward,” he whispered under his breath. “Bend, turn, twist, coil. Find the thread, pick it up, weave it in a loom. Unravel again, then gather.” He took a tentative step forward, then another, as if mapping out the space, then stopped. “This way.” He leapt.

Images darted past him, fast, like a rushing river. Stacks of reports gathering around him. Leliana watching him carefully under the shadow of her cowl. Cullen saying something animatedly as he pointed at a large map. The scratch of Lady Josephine's pen as it glided along smooth parchment.

Sharp pain, a jolt of electricity running up his arm, bright green light flickering in the night. His fingers closing about the hilt of a sword, its sharpened edges glinting as he lifted it towards the sky. 

The smell of hay and horses, the back of Almond’s head bobbing as she walked, the breeze combing through her buttery white mane. A fast gallop through a field of heather, the sun casting blinding rays into his eyes. 

The hiss of a blade cutting through air, quick and precise. Golden wheat fields swaying in the wind like waves, the prick of a needle on skin caked with blood.

Sea water, the scent of fresh soil after warm summer rain. White lilies plaited in a wreath. The hum of the ocean when he brought a curved seashell to his ear. 

More memories flickered before his eyes, too fast for him to make sense of them. So many. There were so many. Too many. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing or hearing half the time, but they were enough to make his head ache if he even attempted to hold on to them. He felt like he was speeding through time, swimming in an ocean that felt never ending. The memories bent and twisted, playing again and again in a loop. Maddening. It was maddening. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath as a strong wind whirled around him. He opened them again, and then… there was him. Dorian.

Him smiling, laughing, tilting his head in thought. His brow creasing, his lips pursing. His fingers brushing over the back of a chair, following the letters on a page, tapping absently on an armrest. The shape of his lips. The colour of his eyes, in surprising detail. Him glaring, cheeks flushed, eyes glistening. The amber light of a fire glinting at their corners. The sound of his sighs, the curve of his neck as it arched, the light of an oil lamp catching on it just so. His smile-

The ground slowly, ever so slowly, solidified under his feet, until he was standing in the middle of what looked like a small clearing. Apple trees heavy with white blossoms, leaves fluttering in the cool breeze. White petals falling around him like snow. Dorian was certain he’d never seen that place before.

“You haven’t.” Cole turned his palm up, watched as a small flower landed on it. “It’s his memory. Not yours.”

Dorian leaned against a nearby tree, rubbing his temples. There was an insistent buzz in his ears, a vice that tightened around his temples. He felt like he'd been on a ship for days, the earth swaying underneath him. “This is… hard to believe,” he said slowly, taking a deep breath. “I have to admit, when you told me you’d been inside the Inquisitor’s mind, I wasn’t sure whether you were joking.”

“Joking?” Cole asked him in earnest confusion. “I thought jokes are meant to make people laugh.” He bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “No. It doesn’t make me laugh. Does it make you laugh?”

No, Dorian hadn’t the faintest desire to laugh. The idea of being inside Trevelyan’s head filled him with unease. Especially since… Maker, there was so much of _him_ there. More than he’d expected. Trevelyan didn’t talk much, but the sheer amount of information he stored in that head of his was staggering. So many details that Dorian himself had never even noticed. Wondrous and terrifying, in equal amounts. It was a struggle to maintain his composure before Cole and not start laughing maniacally or, simply, flee. As far away as he could. He wondered how far he would get before turning right back. The thought chilled him to the bone. 

Frightening. Fascinating.

“What were you doing exactly, while you were here?” he asked, only to distract himself from his own thoughts. “Why were you here in the first place?”

“His thoughts were too loud. I tried to help. I thought I had. But…” He picked at the wrappings on his palm, worrying his lip. “There were too many. I couldn’t hold him back.”

Dorian nodded thoughtfully, glancing at the clearing around him as unease built steadily inside him. He was in Trevelyan’s mind. Rummaging through his memories, while the man probably didn’t have the first clue that he was there to begin with. If anyone knew how possessively Trevelyan guarded the inner workings of his mind, that was Dorian. What if he stumbled upon something he wasn’t supposed to see, not supposed to know, or something that he himself would rather not know? Incurring Trevelyan’s wrath if he found out was the last thing he wanted. On the other hand… 

He rubbed the back of his neck when he realised that his curiosity was far greater than his unease. He was _in_ Trevelyan’s _mind_ . There couldn’t be a rarer opportunity than this. He could learn things that he would probably never hear from Trevelyan’s own lips. He could search to his heart’s content, glean every secret he kept. Trevelyan was a book held firmly closed most of the time, his thoughts inaccessible to anyone other than himself, except for the rare occasions when he allowed a trickle of them to spill through. The temptation was too great. Far too great. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d be doing it only to satisfy his own curiosity. If he looked inside his mind, he would get to know him better. And knowing the person beside you, _really_ knowing them, was half the game, wasn’t it? He would be a better companion, far better than he could have been without that knowledge. He could support him in a way no one else could, guide him, advise him. The perfect partner. _Indispensable._

He bit his lip down hard. Gaining insight into Trevelyan’s thoughts to become essential to him was wrong. Definitely. That wasn’t very far from manipulating him, was it? If it wasn’t manipulating him outright. No. He wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t like that. Was he? What if he was? That was how he’d been brought up. There weren’t many aspects of life in Tevinter where gaining control, one way or the other, wasn’t the end goal. One could take the man out of the Imperium, he supposed, but could they take the Imperium out of the man?

More importantly; did he want to? 

Dorian let out a sharp huff. This was no time for philosophising and self- reflection. Trevelyan was missing, clearly, and he could well be in danger. The Fade was vast and convoluted, and any path they took could lead them somewhere they would much rather not be. He had his work cut out for him, and dallying was not part of it. 

He pushed his sleeves up, his jaw set in determination. If anyone could find Trevelyan, it was him. “If we are to find him, we need to be very particular about the paths we follow," he told Cole. "One wrong turn, and we could end up at a deadend, or worse. A person's mind is not something to be trifled with. I need you to tell me exactly where you were and exactly what you saw while you were here. If we retrace your steps, we might find some clue as to where he’s gone.”

“I’ve already done that.” Cole shook his head softly. “I followed the paths again and again, round and round. He’s not here.”

“He’s not right _here_ , evidently,” Dorian said, irritation creeping into his voice. He idly twisted the edge of his moustache as he thought. _Think, think, think._ “Very well. So following the same pathways doesn’t work. We need to find other pathways. Ones he hasn’t shown you. Or carve new paths, if necessary.”

Cole stood still for a moment, his face dark under the shadow of his hat. He nodded, once, and tentatively reached out to grasp the fabric of Dorian’s sleeve. “Think of water.”

  
  
  
The glow of the lyrium nodes painted the old stone walls a sickly red, diaphanous and pulsating like crystallized blood caught in a jar. The heat radiating from it was thin and sharp, pin pricks on his skin. Dorian looked around him, shivering from the cold and damp that seemed to cling to his bones, submerged as he was in brackish water up to his knees.

“Redcliffe?” he asked incredulously, feeling the familiar red lyrium- induced headache already taking hold. Dratted Redcliffe castle. If he never saw this place and its hideous mabari statues again, it would be too soon. He smoothed his hair back from his brow as a familiar scene unfurled before him.

Trevelyan was half submerged in the water, his armour soaked. Dorian watched himself approach to help him, only to be stopped short by a raised hand and a sharp “I’m fine”, uttered in clipped tones. He could feel the same waves of irritation he had felt that time as Trevelyan wobbled upright on his own, panting and shivering. An ill- mannered and insufferable grouch the Herald of Andraste had seemed to him back then, incapable of communicating with anything other than grunts and curt half-answers. Intriguing, though. He'd always found him intriguing. 

"He’s not here," Cole said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Think again.”

  
  
  
The smooth surface of the Waking Sea glittered in the sunset, the waves reflecting on the carved marble railing of the promenade.

“Val Royeaux,” Dorian whispered. It felt like he’d been there years before, although it was only a few months. He and Trevelyan had been so awkward around each other then, orbiting one another like stars, never touching. It was odd, seeing himself through both Trevelyan’s eyes and his own. The way the light caught the side of his face when he cocked his head in thought. The golden flecks in his eyes- had there always been so many? The way the fabric of his robes draped around his shoulders, smoothed over his chest, flowed down past his waist. The definition in his arms. The smooth, glossy waves in his hair.

“ _Fasta vass,_ ” he breathed. Trevelyan was in love with him. Even then. And Dorian had never known, never seen- he'd known there was something, but this… never this. It shouldn’t have made him feel the way it did. 

Cole tugged at his sleeve. “We need to move on. He’s not here.”

  
  
  
The familiar sound of a waterfall soon came into Dorian’s awareness, the merry trill of songbirds, the brush of leaves and grass as mountain goats grazed nearby. Water trickling down Trevelyan’s chest as he stood under the polished rocks, dewed alabaster skin gleaming in the morning light. Strands of pale blonde hair clinging to the curve of his neck. The glint in his dark blue eyes. The teasing curl of his lip.

“Are you just going to stand there, watching me?”

Dorian’s pulse thumped treacherously as he watched the scene unfold. He could still remember the freezing cold stream running down his back, chilling him through, then Trevelyan’s arms around him warming him up again. The sound of his laugh, bright and clear like the babbling brook beside them. The way he looked at him. The way he held him. And, damn them, but they made a pretty pair. Trevelyan’s milk white skin against his own golden brown. Long, slender fingers tangling in his dark hair. His lips, pink and flushed, locking perfectly with his own. 

It wasn’t long before he felt heat stirring in his chest, and he was suddenly all too aware of Cole’s hand hanging by the edge of his sleeve. “Nothing to see here,” he said hastily as he stepped away. “Let’s move along.” Water. He had to think of water. Cold water, preferably.

  
  
  
The stone skimmed the surface of the calm sea, its edges glinting silver as it moved, quick and agile, like a bird taking flight. A young man was standing by the water’s edge where the waves broke, lapping at the sand like tongues. Jet black hair gathered at the nape of his neck, curls stiff from the salt water. Trousers turned up at the ankles, sun-kissed shoulders bare, the waning light casting shadows on his features when he glanced behind him. “Are you just going to lie there, watching me?”

Trevelyan was lying on the sand, one arm curled under his head. Was that really him? Was that boy, no older than sixteen, seventeen at most, whose lips were now curling in a smirk, whose eyes shone with mischief really be him?

He pushed himself up on his elbows, blonde waves falling around his face like a halo. “I like watching you.” 

“Aye.” The young man’s smile widened just a touch before he turned back to the sea. “I know you do.”

Trevelyan stood up, padding towards him. He wrapped his arms around the man’s middle, pressed his cheek against his back. “Can you blame me?”

“For what?”

“For watching you.” He looked up at him, grinning. “You’re pretty.”

The young man snorted, skimming another stone. “Right.”

“You are.” Trevelyan’s expression softened as he stood up on his tiptoes to nuzzle his ear. “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”

Dorian’s heart squeezed into something small and tight as he watched the man leaning down to kiss him. This memory wasn’t like the others. Mainly because he wasn’t in it, but more than that… it was intimate. Too intimate. It felt as if he was watching something he shouldn’t be, an uninvited spectator. Maker, the way Trevelyan _looked_ at that young man, the way he kissed him. His first love, perhaps, or something very close. It stung to realise that he was jealous. Jealous of a memory, a fading echo. Jealous of the smiles Trevelyan gave this boy so freely, when he himself had had to earn each one. 

“He smiles when he’s with you,” Cole whispered beside him.

 _Not like this,_ Dorian thought bitterly, and his heart tightened even more. _Never like this._ Trevelyan smiled so rarely, it was odd to see him so jovial now. Like watching someone else, who only shared a passing similarity with the Trevelyan he knew. A ghost, perhaps. A ghost, that he still wanted to grab and hold and keep close, despite it all. 

_Mine,_ he wanted to say. _Mine, mine, mine._

A crack of thunder echoed along the empty beach. Rain clouds gathered, hovering over them. Fat drops of warm summer rain dropped from above, dampening the top of his head, soaking into the sand beneath his feet. 

The young man looked up, squinting at the sky. “It’ll start pouring soon,” he said absently, then his eyes widened. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“The horses. They’ll get soaked.” He bent down, picking up his shirt that was folded neatly upon a rock before taking off at a run. 

“Pod!” Trevelyan started after him, then turned back to snatch his own shirt from the ground. “Wait for me! Ah, damn it,” he huffed, pulling the fabric over his head. The grey clouds were thickening. Trevelyan was muttering something under his breath as he rushed straight past Dorian and Cole. Their shoulders touched, and the beach disappeared in a mist. 

Rain was falling hard, pattering on polished cobblestones and stone roofs. The thunder overhead was now deafening, lightning splitting the sky in two. Dorian caught sight of a blonde head dashing past him, the heels of his boots clicking on the hard pavement- Trevelyan. Soaked to the bone, running like his life depended on it. Dorian ran after him, as if by instinct, with Cole falling in beside him. Before he knew it, they were all running like mad through narrow, twisting alleyways. Dorian didn’t think he’d ever ran so fast before in his life. His lungs were burning with exertion, the sweat on his brow mingling with the rain that was steadily landing atop his head. He stopped when Trevelyan leaned against a wall to catch his breath. He pressed his palm to his side, winced when it came away bloody. Dorian’s breath caught. Who’d done that to him? Who was after him? What was happening-

“There he is! Get him!”

Panic surged through him in a wave. Trevelyan glanced back over his shoulder, eyes wide and dark in terror. He started running again, took an abrupt left at a corner, slipped, fell in a mud puddle, pushed himself up with a muffled groan, kept running. Dorian looked behind them, but couldn’t see anyone. What on earth was going on? Where were they?

“Don’t let him get away, damn you!”

The voices were closer now, footsteps echoing in the empty streets. Trevelyan’s face was twisted in agony as he stumbled along, as fast as his wound would allow him. Before Dorian knew it, they were all standing at the docks, the stormy sea glinting in the dark, waves crashing against the stone wharf. The rest of the street was wide and clear. Nowhere to hide. 

Trevelyan took in a sharp breath and leapt over the edge. 

“No!” Dorian ran to the precipice, looking for him amidst the frothing waves. “What are you doing, you fool-” Cole’s hand on his arm stopped him. 

“Let him,” he said quietly.

Dorian opened his mouth to speak, just as two men came running from the street above them, panting. 

“Where the fuck did he go?” one of them said, leaning forward on his knees. 

The other one took his cap off, patted his brow, put it back on. A deep scar ran down the side of his face, all the way down to his neck, twisting his features. “Probably bleeding in some alley,” he said gruffly. 

The first man straightened, glaring at his companion. “You had to go pulling daggers,” he spat. “I told you he’s worth shit to us dead.” He adjusted his own cap on his head and took off again. “We’ll comb this place until we find him.”

Dorian simply watched as the men -bounty hunters, no doubt about it- walked away, their forms soon engulfed by the dark and the rain. His pulse was pumping in his ears. Those bastards- those- those _leeches_ \- 

“ _Vishante kaffas,_ ” he snarled under his breath. If he got his hands on them, they would pay. Dearly. 

A muffled gasp from below drew his attention. Trevelyan was battling with the waves as he drew himself up slowly on the dock steps. He collapsed on the cold, wet stone, coughing and sputtering water, wheezing in between each fit.

Dorian knelt by his side, his eyes burning, his throat clenching. The memory was thick and oppressive, his own thoughts melding with his. Maker, he looked helpless. Utterly helpless, drenched to the bone, shivering where he lay. Was that what his life was like? Before the Inquisition- before they met? This… running for his life, fighting, gasping for air. On his own. Thinking there was no one there. No one in the world that cared for him. 

“I care,” Dorian whispered, lying next to him on the ground. He cradled his head against his chest, pulled him close. “I care. I do.”

Cole stood over them both, watching in silence. “We need to leave,” he said quietly. 

Dorian nodded, pressing his eyes shut as he held him closer still. “Just a moment longer.” 

“We are running out of time.” The boy shook his head mournfully, voice thick with compassion. Damn him. “I’m sorry.”

The rain came down harder and harder, until it was like a solid blanket of water being poured over them. Dorian felt as if he would melt, dissolve, seep into the dense stone underneath him and get washed away into the sea. And he would welcome it. 

  
  
  


Bright light blinded him. Dorian brought his hand over his brow as he sat up, shielding his eyes. Trevelyan was gone, the rain had stopped, the docks had disappeared. They were in the middle of a wide pasture. Rolling hills, tall grass swaying with the breeze. The sheep grazing in the distance were moving specks of white in a sea of green. The apple trees were in full bloom, the white petals falling around them like snow.

“We’re back here?” Dorian gasped, pushing himself upright. “After everything, we’re back to the start?” This was pointless. They were going in circles. They would never get out of there. They would never find him. 

“It’s _a_ start." The waning sun cast was a warm, golden glow on Cole’s pale skin. “The same image but twisted. A broken mirror. The reflection is split. Distorted. Wrong. It’s all wrong.” He took a step forward, traipsing through the waist tall grass. “He’s close.”

Dorian followed, although his head was heavy and his limbs heavier still. They walked and walked, for what felt like hours. Once or twice Cole had to stop, look around him, then change direction completely. He said he felt a pull, something drawing him, though Dorian felt very little. Several times he thought he caught a glimpse of something moving at the edges of his vision, only to turn around and see that no one was there. It was quiet and peaceful, yet Dorian couldn’t help but feel something bubbling just below the surface. The calm before the storm. 

“Are we getting closer?” he asked Cole when he saw the sun hovering over the edges of the mountain range to their west. Of course, that was Fade, so there was no east or west, and time was irrelevant. A quick shuffling of feet behind him- he spun on his heels, hand already straying to the staff on his back. Once again, there was no one there. Was he seeing things? 

He blinked and shook his head as he started after Cole again. Being inside someone else’s mind was not a simple affair. What looked like a person could be a gateway that would whisk the intruder away and down another string of memories, dreams, nightmares even. Dorian had heard of situations where someone had entered a person’s mind, only to come out missing part of their own.

Instead of a response, Cole strode towards a dense patch of trees. Dorian followed with a sigh, carefully running his fingers through his hair. The ball of tension in his stomach grew and grew the more they moved on. It seemed to him like Cole was just leading them around in circles, and he could do nothing but walk after him. 

The trees thickened, their canopy of leaves obscuring the light and dousing the ground in shadow. The warm breeze disappeared, only to be replaced by strong, cold winds. They pushed onwards as the green grass turned to hard packed soil, as that turned into snow covered earth. Dorian gathered his cloak tighter around him. “Are you sure this is the right way? I don’t believe he would willingly go somewhere that’s as cold as this.”

“We’re close,” Cole replied. He was moving through the snow with ease, gracefully walking around the tree trunks in their way. The dense woodland soon gave way to a clearing, and the clearing to a narrow, snow covered road. Cole stopped, looking towards the north. 

Dorian knew this road. He had traversed it countless times. He followed Cole’s gaze, and saw exactly what he’d feared he would see. “Skyhold?” But this didn’t make sense. Not one bit. “All this time, he’d been in Skyhold?”

“Not Skyhold.” Cole nodded towards the familiar fortress. “Look.”

Dorian squinted. “I don’t understand. What-”

He hadn’t finished his sentence when he saw it. The Eastern Tower, that had born a large hole in its middle since the moment they had all set foot in that place, was now standing tall and proud beside the main keep. Parts of the battlements that had collapsed eons before were now fully repaired, good as new. The space before Skyhold, that had been filled with tents and hastily built hovels was a bustling village, with smoking chimneys and children running about, wooden walls and manned watchtowers, the Inquisition flag flying alongside a banner that Dorian had never seen before. A grey draft horse, a sickle and a sword on a field of green and gold. A stronghold, and a prosperous one, at that.

“What in the Maker’s name,” he breathed. What was this place? It wasn’t another memory, surely- this place before him didn’t exist. A dream, then?

“Not his,” Cole said, worrying the inside of his lip. “It’s not his. It’s-”

“A construct.” The sudden realisation froze the blood in Dorian’s veins. “A demon?”

Cole nodded slowly. “I tried to hold him back, but the pull was too strong. His thoughts are too loud. If I could hear them, so could others.”

“A demon,” Dorian said again, more quietly this time. His mind was working at a feverish pace, his stomach gripped in a vice. How long could Trevelyan have been under its influence? Demons, especially powerful ones, often stalked their prey, followed them until they knew enough about them to bind them. Elaborate visions like these could keep for a long while, until the person’s defences deteriorated irrevocably. Besides, time got warped in the Fade, more the deeper one ventured. An hour in the waking world could feel like days, weeks. Months. The mind was a curious thing. 

“You’re sure he’s in there?” he asked. Cole nodded again, his eyes fixed on the castle before them.

Dorian took a deep breath as his gaze drifted back to Skyhold. Proud and strong against anyone who dared to oppose it. They would see about that.

“Better get ready, then,” he said, taking a decisive step forward. “We’ve a fortress to storm.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works quoted:
> 
> 1\. Part of the Canticle of Transfigurations, from Andraste's sermon at Valarian Fields.  
> 2\. _The Light Wraps You_ by Pablo Neruda.
> 
> I hope you're ready for Dorian burning a crap ton of things in the next chapter.
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hello, ask me stuff, yell at me! I love hearing from you :)


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